


Kingdom Come

by the_ktgrace



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fantasy, Kings & Queens, Knights - Freeform, Royalty, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 04:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 108,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6640957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ktgrace/pseuds/the_ktgrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her father, the king, was poisoned. She, heir to the throne, fled into hiding. Ten years later, a royal guard needs to bring her back to the throne to save his sister. Faraway kingdoms, arranged marriages, deception, brewing war… And that's only the beginning for this stubborn princess and her arrogant guard. A story of fantasy and adventure in the kingdom of Ark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ten Years Ago

 

_Ten Years Ago…_

She pressed her face against the cool glass of the carriage, feeling the rough bumps of the dirt road through the vibrations traveling up the wheels. Her posture was slumped and leaning against the plush interior of the carriage. Not really paying close attention, her eyes stared lazily out at the forest passing by, letting her mind drift towards sleep.

“Clarke,” she almost didn’t hear her mother speak from across the carriage. The young princess could hear the reprimand in the queen’s voice, and Clarke wasn’t in the mood for it. She ignored her.

“Clarissa Elizabeth, sit up please,” her mother repeated, taking care to call Clarke by her given name. “You’ll wrinkle your dress.”

“I don’t care,” Clarke grumbled under her breath. At age ten, she was nursing a newfound attitude that was blossoming as she grew older. “I’ve got plenty packed away, and Nurse could always fix my wrinkles.”

“Nurse has plenty to do without fixing your dresses,” Queen Abigail rolled her eyes and smoothed her own skirt on her lap, aging hands passing over glossy purple satin.

“That’s her job, isn’t it though? To take care of me and my things.”

“That doesn’t mean you need to go out of your way to give her more work.”

“But I’m one of the _Privileged_ ,” Clarke wore her social status like a gleaming medal around her neck. “Better than that – we’re royalty. _The_ royal family.”

“Clarke, you really should learn---” Abby was cut off by the carriage coming to a sudden halt. Clarke lurched forward, nearly sliding off her velvet seat. Abby propped open the glass of the window and leaned out to talk to the driver. “Why have we stopped? We’re not there yet.”

Clarke watched a single rider approach on horseback, wearing a disheveled uniform and an ashen face. He looked as though he’d seen a legion of ghosts and lived to tell the tale. The driver said something to the queen, and Abby gathered her skirts.

“Wait in the carriage please.”

Abby stepped out of the carriage and shut the door, walking out of Clarke’s line of vision. _Something isn’t right,_ Clarke couldn’t help but feel it in the pit of her stomach. She clutched her hands together, rubbing her thumbs over each other. She couldn’t make out exactly what was being said outside, just the sounds of indistinct, yet insistent, conversation.

Clarke had been nervously playing with a lock of her long blond hair when the carriage door was thrown open. She jumped, pressing her back flat against the cabin’s interior before recognizing her mother’s face. “Mom, what’s going on?”

“Clarissa, come with me.” She grabbed her daughter’s forearm forcefully and pulled her from the carriage to stand out on the road. Clarke felt a chill in the air around her and soon found herself longing for the thick blankets back home at the palace.

“Clarissa, you need to listen to my instructions and follow them exactly.” Abby spoke urgently, crouching down to look at Clarke in the eyes. _She certainly doesn’t care about wrinkling_ her _dress_ , Clarke remarked to herself. “Something’s happened, sweetheart. You need to go with Lemkin, here,” she motioned to the pale-faced rider on the horse. “He’s going to take you to a safe house. You must stay quiet and stay out of sight. Don’t say anything about who you are or that you belong to the royal family.”

Clarke’s brows furrowed, confused. “What’s happening? Why do I need to go?”

“Something has happened back at the palace, Clarke. I can’t go with you, but you need to leave. It’s the only way I can keep you safe for right now.” Abby clutched Clarke’s hands, tears filling her eyes. “Go to this safe house, you’ll meet Vera and she’ll take care of you. Vera is General Kane’s mother. You know General Kane, right?”

“Of course,” Clarke nodded, picturing the imposing chief of the royal guard, with his hooked nose and stony eyes. “When will I see you again?”

“As soon as I can come, I will. You have to be strong, my darling. You hear me? Be strong, even – _especially_ – when I can’t be with you. Remember: don’t tell anyone your real name. You cannot say that you’re a Griffin, or show them your royal mark. Understand?”

“Yes, Mom,” Clarke bobbed her head rapidly, so that it started to hurt. She felt like the blood was pounding inside her brain, and her stomach seemed to be lined with ice. “I don’t want to go.”

Abby pulled Clarke into a tight embrace. “You have to, my princess. My brave princess. I will find you as soon as I can. But these are dangerous times to be a Griffin. You must hide your identity until it is safer. Promise me that?”

“I promise.”

“I love you, so very much Clarke.”

“I love you too.” Clarke hated to cry, but she couldn’t stop it.

Abby gently pulled Clarke’s wrist over towards her. She turned her daughter’s arm over, exposing the royal mark Clarke had received on her as a child – the sign of the royal family. Everyone in the direct Griffin line had worn that mark on their left wrist for centuries. Abby pressed a soft kiss on Clarke’s wrist, on top of the tattoo. “You are a Griffin, Clarissa Elizabeth. You will always be a Griffin. Right now, you may not be able to share that with the world, but one day the world will need you. As a Griffin, _and_ as a leader. One day, you will be queen of Ark, and you can be proud of your name. You understand me?”

Clarke’s mind couldn’t keep up. _Surely Mom will come back_ , she insisted to herself, _She said I would see her again. As soon as it would be safe_.

“Alright,” Abby pulled herself together and straightened up into standing. “You be a good girl to Mr. Lemkin, now hear me? Don’t give him any trouble, I know you like to do that.”

Clarke let the guard help her onto his horse. She saw weariness in his face, but something else in his eyes. Sadness. No, more than that. Pity.

He settled onto his steed behind Clarke, steading her as he gripped the reins. Stirring the horse into a trot, Clarke caught the last glimpse of her mother, giving Clarke a dewy-eyed smile as Lemkin led them deep into the forest.

* * *

Clarke didn’t speak during their journey; she couldn’t find the words to say. It was as if her throat had dried up, sucking any conversation out of her. She tried to process what her mother had told her, reading between the lines. _What are they not telling me?_

They rode for hours. At times, it seemed like Lemkin had no idea where he was going. Sometimes they rode on a faint dirt trail, other times the horse plowed straight through the undergrowth. They never came near a main road, and Lemkin stayed alert and awake, listening for other riders. Clarke, on the other hand, found herself slipping in and out of sleep.

Clarke was roused out of her rocky sleep when the horse slowed to a stop. Groggy, she took in her surroundings. They were in a thick, wild part of the forest, only broken by a small clearing hidden among the trees. In the center of that clearing stood a small, worn-down cottage, with moss climbing up the warping wood walls and a thin line of smoke floating from the chimney. Lemkin hopped down off his horse first, turning to lift Clarke off. She landed on damp spongy soil, her proper dress shoes sinking into the dirt.

“Tor?” A woman crossed from the doorway of the cottage, tugging a crocheted shawl tight around her shoulders. Her short brown hair was laced with gray, and deep lines of age marked her face.

“Vera, I’m glad you’re home tonight,” Lemkin said, leading Clarke over towards the safe house. “I don’t know if I can stay for long before they notice I’m gone.”

“It’s getting dark, you can’t possibly make it back to Station City in time,” the woman said. Clarke put connections together, realizing this must be Vera, Kane’s mother. Her soft eyes were nothing like his hard gaze. She looked at Clarke with curiosity, then sudden comprehension. “Is this --- _Her Highness_?”

“Yes,” Lemkin answered for her, his red beard dipping into his chin as he nodded deeply, almost reverently. Clarke wasn’t used to so much respect, even as the crown heir to the throne of Ark.

Something shifted behind Vera’s eyes, as if she was snapping herself awake. She addressed Clarke, “Come along inside, dearie. You must be hungry.”

Vera led Clarke into the small, one-room cottage. It was about as far from the royal palace as one could get, but Clarke appreciated the warmth of the open hearth. She sat down in front of it while Vera and Lemkin remained outside. Over her shoulder, Clarke watched Lemkin whisper something to the older woman. She showed visible pain at the news, her hand falling over her heart. “God save us all,” she murmured, shaken. “When did they find him? How?”

“He was found dead just after his afternoon meal, slumped over his desk. Poison, they believe. They claim to be investigating, but we know there’s more corruption in that palace than anyone would admit.” Lemkin paused, also obviously upset. “The moment we heard it was an assassination, we were instructed to keep the princess safe. His daughter, as the heir, would be the next likely target.”

_His daughter._ The words rattled in Clarke’s ears like two coins in an empty jar. Everything fell into place. Everything made sense. Clarke rose slowly, eyes on Vera and Lemkin.

“My father is dead?”

Clarke remembered seeing the pure pity in their eyes before blacking out. She hated the sight of it.

* * *

Numb. That’s how she felt. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream, or break down. She thought she would, but no tears would come. Her throat felt raw and bare.

It’s not that Clarke didn’t mourn her father’s death. She did, she’d loved him with all of her heart. He was her best friend, her role model. He wasn’t just the king of Ark: he was all that mattered to Clarke.

So when Vera told her that yes, her father had been poisoned, Clarke didn’t know how to react.

Once, as a small child, Clarke hadn’t been looking where she was going and ran full-speed into a wall. Before the pain of the collision settled in, Clarke didn’t feel anything. It was like her brain didn’t know how to respond to the crash. Like she was numb.

That’s how she felt now.

Clarke drew into herself, not speaking or even bothering to look up when addressed. She did everything that Vera instructed her to: switching into the commoner tunic and leggings that she was given, eating the simple soup that warmed her stomach but not her heart. Mutely sitting by herself, she halfheartedly listened as Lemkin said his goodbyes to Vera.

“You can’t really be leaving, Tor,” Vera pleaded with him.

“I don’t want to, but I abandoned my post. They know how close I was to the royal family, and they’ll suspect that I was out searching for the queen and princess. I don’t want to place them in any greater danger. Besides,” he sighed, wearily. “My daughter is back in Station City without me. If they can’t touch me, I don’t want them going after Reese. She’s all I have left.”

“I understand,” Vera nodded slowly. “Her highness will be safe here.”

_Safe_. Clarke didn’t feel safe, she felt isolated. Not just physically – they _were_ miles from any nearby signs of civilization. No, she felt alone in her grief, simply because neither Vera nor Lemkin knew how Clarke was grieving for her father’s death. How Clarke felt a part of her had shriveled and died with him.

After Lemkin departed, Vera tried her hand at comforting Clarke again. She settled down next to Clarke by the hearth, speaking in a calming tone. “They will find who did this, dear. They will smoke out the traitors, and soon it will be safe for you to return home.”

_There it was again. “Safe”._

“I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now---”

“You can’t.” Clarke cut her off with two blunt words, and Vera got the message. Instead of pushing the grief-stricken girl any further, she busied herself with making a bed for Clarke.

It wasn’t long before Clarke was settling in for sleep. The sun had long since gone down, leaving the hearth’s firelight as the only illumination in the dark forest clearing. Vera had placed Clarke’s sleeping mat next to hers, and Clarke slipped under the covers in silence. Even the blanket seemed too rough and intrusive against her skin.

She tried to fall asleep, willing herself to give up to the weariness and exhaustion that physically weighed her down. But, even as she listened to the steady rise and fall of Vera’s breathing beside her, Clarke couldn’t calm her mind. She felt wide awake, despite how tired her body seemed to be.

Clarke couldn’t lay still, legs twitching to run and jump and kick. Rising from bed, she crept out the front door for a quick walk around the clearing. But not before grabbing Vera’s cooking knife from its peg on the wall: she wasn’t up for getting attacked by some wild animal.

Clarke took slow, measured steps away from the cottage, trying to steady her racing heartbeat. She counted to ten in her head, then started over and began again. The exercise usually calmed her down in times of stress. She’d just made it to five for the second time when the world exploded.

A burst of heat and light and sound erupted from behind Clarke, throwing her down onto the soil. She was slow to rise, ears ringing and head thudding. Turning, Clarke saw half of the eastern wall blown clean off the cottage: right where the beds were.

Clarke dragged herself towards the burning cottage, ignoring the screaming pain in her head and limbs. Her eyes searched desperately for Vera’s sleeping form, but nothing resembling a human remained. That entire corner of the cottage had been decimated by some hidden bomb, and the rest of the house was burning in angry orange flames.

Her brain was jolted from its numbing grief by Clarke’s fight-or-flight instinct. There was no way she could get back into that cottage without burning to death herself. And there was no sign of Vera anywhere.

In more ways than one, Clarke was completely alone.

Keeping the blazing heat at her back, Clarke scrambled into the pitch black forest in a desperate fleeing dash. She held Vera’s knife out protectively, amazed and thankful for her odd sense of premonition from before the blast. Her feet, wearing humble sandals, caught on every large root and twig that Clarke passed, sending her stumbling in the darkness. Her left hand groped out blindly, pulling herself along. She’d just clambered over a rotting log when her foot missed the ground and sent her tumbling. Clarke rolled like an overturned barrel, hitting rocks and trees and bushes before bottoming out at the base of a hill.

Hours must have passed in that suffocating darkness, for when Clarke opened her eyes she squinted into stark, exposing sunlight. She was lying in a small forest clearing, tossed in with a thick carpet of leaves and dirt. Her right knee and head throbbed insistently, and though she had slit her fingers on the knife during the fall, she somehow had held onto it. She was covered from head to toe in mud and twigs.

And two boys stood over her, looking at her like she’d grown a second head.

Clarke snapped to, sitting upright and holding out the knife. She’d moved too quickly, and her head felt worse for it. The pain almost sent her collapsing again.

“What the hell happened to you?” The first boy asked, eyes wide. He was the smaller of the two, with glossy black hair that fell over his perplexed eyebrows. His companion looked like a giant, long-limbed fly, staring at her face through a pair of muck covered goggles. As if he could possibly see any better through those grimy lenses.

“Get away from me,” Clarke pointed the knife at their heads and did her best to appear menacing. “I --- I’m not afraid to use this.”

“Yes you are,” Bug-Eyes said, speaking through a runny nose, “Look at you, you’re shaking.”

“Am not.” Clarke stuck out her chin.

“Are too.”

“He’s right,” his smaller companion agreed.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bug-Eyes straightened up and crossed his arms. He was taller than Clarke, with arms and legs that seemed too long for his body. Even so, his face looked younger than hers. “You’re our prisoner now. You have to do what we say.”

“Who says I’m your prisoner?”

“There’s two of us, and only one of you. We outnumber you, so that makes you our prisoner. Right Monty?” His sidekick nodded, eyes still wide.

“Wait,” Clarke stopped them, trying to think on her feet. “Who are you guys anyways?”

“I’m Jasper,” said Bug-Eyes, “And that’s Monty.”

“I can’t be your prisoner. Won’t your parents wonder where I came from, then?”

Jasper pulled his goggles off his eyes, “We don’t have any parents. And even if we did, it wouldn’t matter. We’ve run away.”

“Well, so have I,” Clarke stood up and puffed her chest out. In a way, she _had_ run away. “So _there_.”

“We’re bandits,” Jasper said proudly. “We steal stuff all the time, and we’re really good at it, too. Very sneaky.”

Monty elbowed Jasper in the ribs, “You can’t go around telling that to complete strangers. She’ll blow us in.”

Jasper cursed, rather maturely for his young age. “Now we can’t let you go, you _have_ to be our prisoner.” He spoke about a _prisoner_ like it was a casual thing.

“Or,” Clarke tried to reason with them, “You could let me join you. We could be like a bandit troupe, the three of us.”

“No, no no no,” Jasper shook his head. “No way. No girls allowed.”

“Why not? I’m just as sneaky as you guys, I’d bet.”

“I don’t care. We don’t need any girls around.”

“Yeah, but I’m really smart,” Clarke insisted. “And I’m – I’m a healer.” Part of that was true. Throughout her entire life, Abby had always been very interested in medicine and healing, and she’d decided that Clarke should at least learn the basics of first aid care. “That’s pretty useful, especially if you’re bandits living out here in the woods.”

“She’s got a point,” Monty spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

Jasper remained unconvinced, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

Clarke sighed. It was time to bring out her biggest weapon of all. “How old are you?”

“We’re both nine,” Monty answered for them.

“Well, I’m ten. I’m older, so you _have_ to let me join you. It’s the rules.”

Clarke could see that every inch of Jasper wanted to turn her away. But his eyes betrayed it all: he wouldn’t _dare_ defy the often-unspoken “big-kid” rule. He glanced over to Monty, who shrugged, before finally breaking down. “Fine, whatever. You can join us.”

Clarke smiled triumphantly.

“But, you have to sleep on the other side of our camp, because you’re a girl. And don’t touch my stuff, _ever_ , or I’ll slug you.”

“And I’ll slug you right back,” Clarke retorted, getting the hang of it.

“First you have to swear our oath of loyalty,” Monty said, rolling up his sleeves. He and Jasper moved towards each other, spitting into their right hands. They placed one palm on top of the other, then waited expectantly for Clarke to do the same. More than slightly disgusted, Clarke spit into her hand and added hers to the pile, trying not to think about the saliva.

“Repeat after me,” Monty instructed. “I… wait, what is your name?”

She hesitated, giving her nickname. “Clarke,” she said, then added, “The First.”

“Alright then. I, _Clarke the First_ , do solemnly swear that I will always have both Jasper and Monty’s backs.” She repeated this. “Where they go, I’ll go. What they do, I’ll do. We will be a team. I will be their trusty companion and we will be partners-in-crime.”

“I will be their trusty companion and we will be partners-in-crime.” Clarke ended the oath. Her heart, still heavy and icy from the tragedies of the night before, felt a tiny flicker of hope at the notion of belonging.

 

 


	2. Station City

_Present Day –_

Wells tugged back thick curtains hanging over his windows, letting the warm late-summer sunlight wash over him. It sparkled off the elaborately painted walls of his chambers. Being the son of the chancellor came with quite a few perks, one of which being a beautiful living suite in the royal palace.

And Wells loved his room. He found himself spending most of his time indoors, often alone in his room. Wells had always been a quieter soul, polite and friendly to others yet preferring to be alone. So it was perfectly normal for him to be sitting indoors on such a brilliantly sunny day.

Settling back down at his desk, Wells dipped his quill into the porcelain inkwell and scratched the parchment again. Sketching out a map of the northwestern corner of Ark, he was adding the detail to a river when he heard footsteps approach from behind him. His door swung open.

“Anything I can help you with, Father?” Wells asked, knowing there was only one person who ever entered his room without knocking.

When Chancellor Jaha entered a room, he carried a formidable presence around himself. Some of it came with the way he dressed: lavishly, yet in darker shades that seemed to downplay the finery he wore. Perhaps it was his impeccable posture, or the thunder in his voice when he spoke. Jaha carried himself like a king, and he was only one step away from one.

“I have some interesting news to share with you,” Jaha said, strolling over towards the desk. Even though his son, a grown young man, matched his height, Jaha still loved to tower over him. Wells remained seated.

“What is it?”

“We’ve reached September now,” Jaha said leisurely, “Another summer come and gone.”

“Yes, I know that,” Wells didn’t understand the importance.

“Who had a birthday in September, Wells?” Jaha asked, like it was nothing significant.

Wells thought for a moment, “I remember Clarissa’s birthday fell in September, maybe a week out from now.”

“Yes, the lost princess.” Jaha’s face cracked a grin. “It’s been ten years since her – _disappearance_ , if you can believe it.”

“It has,” Wells repeated softly to himself. A part of his heart still ached for Clarissa. They’d grown up in the palace together, and she was the first friend he could remember making. His _best_ friend. Upon Clarissa’s birth, she had been betrothed to marry Wells when she would come of age. That much was beyond their control. If Clarissa was ever to ascend to the Arkian throne, she needed to have a husband. Rules were rules.

Then came the assassination of King Jacob to throw everything out of order. A rebel anarchist openly confessed to slipping poison into the king’s drink, and he was shortly put to death. But while her mother returned to a broken palace, the heir princess was considered dead, the victim of a calculated bombing attack on the Griffin family line.

Queen Abigail remained alone on the throne of Ark, but the loss of both her husband and only daughter shook her to the core. She had grown weak in spirit and health, frequently falling ill. In her absence, Thelonious Jaha had risen from the position of chief royal advisor to Chancellor, the closest a non-royal could come to the monarchy’s power. After all, without Princess Clarissa Elizabeth, the Griffin family line would end.

But Wells knew otherwise. He’d heard rumblings for years, among his father’s most trusted colleagues, rumblings that believed that the princess wasn’t actually dead. _There was never a body found_ , they would remind each other. _Even in an explosion there would be evidence of a body shattered._ Nothing remained of Clarissa.

At first Jaha had been very skeptical of these theories, and so was Wells. As a young boy hearing of his best friend’s terrible death, Wells had taken a while to get over the loss of Clarissa. But he _did_ get over her, and he’d learned to move on. The possibility that somewhere - out in the world - she was still alive ripped apart any seams of closure that Wells had so carefully tried to stitch.

“Why are you bringing this up now?” Wells wondered.

“You know we’ve had clandestine searches for years, spies trying to prove whether or not the suspicions could be true. I’ve just received word that one of our sources has located a girl he is _certain_ is the lost princess.”

Wells’s stomach plummeted to the floor.

It had always been a possibility. Wells had known that from the moment he’d learned there was no body recovered. He came to accept the fact that he would never know what happened to Clarissa. This changed everything.

“Located her _where_? Here, in Ark?”

“Yes, in a village on the outskirts of the southern forest. He followed her several times in the past week, trying to gather intelligence.”

Wells fidgeted, playing with the plumed end of his quill pen in a nervous habit. “What makes him so certain that this must be her?”

Jaha faced away from Wells, admiring the wall paneling with his hands clasped at the small of his back. “My source found a girl of the appropriate age and looks – blond hair, birth mark over her lip, and strong resemblance to both the king and queen. She kept a low profile in this village, tending to slip in and out of places unseen.” A smile crossed his face, “When my source followed her as she met with another friend – or a lover, it seemed – he referred to her as ‘Clarke’. Tell me, Wells, what was the nickname that the king and queen used for their daughter?”

“Clarke,” Wells whispered, the word more of a breath than a sound. “Are you sure?”

“We cannot be certain until she comes to the palace for inspection,” Jaha said, “But if Princess Clarissa _did_ survive that bomb, then I would place my bet on this Clarke girl.”

Wells stood and paced over to the window, letting his brain process this new revelation. _Clarissa alive?_ Really _alive, and here in Ark?_ She was practically coming back from the dead.

And if she was alive, then Wells would still be her betrothed.

“If this really _is_ Clarissa,” Wells said slowly, “Then she would be turning twenty-one within the week. What does that mean for her and the Griffin throne?”

“That’s where it gets tricky,” Jaha flexed his hands. “Abby still technically holds the title of queen, and we both know the only reason the Council approved my promotion to Chancellor was because of Abby’s unstable health. But if Clarissa comes back, of age and good health, then they will waste no time in moving a new Griffin onto the throne. Clarissa could become the new queen within the month, likely no later than Unity Day.

“But, the princess remains betrothed to wed _you_ , Wells. And, in accordance with Arkian law, an unmarried woman cannot become queen.” Jaha turned, finally facing his son. “If this Clarke is truly the princess, then you two shall be wed before she ascends to the throne on Unity Day.”

Wells sat back down, looking like he’d just been hit in the face. “Wed? But I --- I don’t even know this girl! Even if she is Clarissa --- it’s been ten years since I’ve last seen her. What if she is a completely different person? What if ---”

“Quit whining, Wells,” Jaha scolded him, “And stop thinking about yourself for one moment. This marriage will get you onto the throne, _the royal throne_. You will be king!”

Wells shook his head, slowly. “That is why you’re so excited about finding her. It’s not about the princess, or bringing Abby’s daughter home.” His brain put the pieces together, taking note of how his father’s manipulative mind worked. “You want me on the throne so you can feed me instructions to carry out as king. So _you_ can really be in control.”

Jaha paused, then spoke. “That’s the reality of the situation. I have so much to give to Ark, and there’s only so much I can do as Chancellor with Abby fighting nearly my every move.” There was truth to that: Due to his history in the Arkian government – such as the role of chief royal advisor – law prevented Jaha from ever taking the throne. Even in his position as Chancellor, he could still be vetoed by the queen, and she hadn’t been seeing eye-to-eye with him for many years now. “With you as king, we can use our minds together, to lead Ark towards a brighter future.”

“How idealistic of you, coming from a man who would do _anything_ to secure that throne.”

“And you judge me for it?” Jaha spat, “You’re weak, and you’re scared. You have the opportunity to become king of this great country, and you fear it because _What if Clarissa is a completely different person?_ You fear a little girl!”

“I’m not like _you_ , Father. I don’t like manipulating people as though they are puppets on a string.”

Jaha puffed out his chest, “You _will_ become king of Ark, and I don’t care how it is done. It is time for the Jaha rule to begin.”

“You’re out of line, and out of your mind.”

“The Griffin royal line is leading this country to hell, and I’ll be damned if I don’t stop it!” Jaha shouted, his voice booming. “It is my destiny!”

* * *

General Marcus Kane liked to keep his office neat and orderly, like most things in his life. Instead of the finery typical of the rest of the palace, Kane’s office consisted of simple wallpaper and molding all in shades of dusky gray. His desk was fashioned out of metal and the chair required him to keep perfect posture as he sat.

His ears perked up at the sound of tentative knocking on his door. “Come in, Cadet,” he called out, expecting the guest. Kane finished the sentence he was writing and placed his fountain pen down.

Bellamy Blake entered slowly, hesitantly. He stood with his back straight and legs apart, hands clasped behind his back in the stance of a royal guard cadet. His dark hair was slicked and combed back, and he wore the navy uniform of a guardsman with pride. Under raised eyebrows, his brown eyes showed confusion and curiosity.

“You summoned me, General?”

Kane nodded, then motioned towards the chair on the other side of his desk. “Sit.” Bellamy seemed unsure as to whether or not he wanted to, so Kane added, “Please.”

Straightening the papers on his desk, Kane addressed the cadet. “How has your sister been lately?”

“Octavia? She’s been fine, sir. Why do you ask?”

Kane sighed, weary. “I was alerted, this afternoon, that your sister has been arrested. _Again_.”

Bellamy stiffened, his jaw tightening. “For what?”

“Theft, the usual,” Kane says, and the disappointment in his voice didn’t hide the sense of routine and repetition. “What do you have to say to that?”

Groaning, Bellamy replies, “She’s always been a handful, Octavia. She’s a good kid, believe me sir. She is --- it’s just that she makes some bad decisions.” Bellamy fought to keep his professional composure together, but Kane could see the cracks starting to show through. “She means well.”

“I’m sure she _means_ well, Cadet Blake, but that’s her third arrest in the past year,” Kane laid his hands flat on the cool surface of his desk.

“She’s probably just looking for attention,” Bellamy offered.

“Attention? By getting herself _arrested_?”

“I’ve been taking longer shifts and later hours, sir. And – I’m not complaining about it – but Octavia has been spending a lot more time alone now. That, and I don’t know what kinds of people she is around. Octavia – she’s only as good as the people around her.”

“I understand, Cadet. However, I do not condone it.” Kane lifted his chin slightly as he spoke, “I have been gentle on your sister before, because I know you, Bellamy Blake. I know how hard it has been for you, raising your sister on your own and rising through the ranks of the royal guard. I see a lot of myself in you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Bellamy, knowing it was best to take that as a compliment whether he agreed with it or not.

Kane’s words were true: Bellamy had worked against all the forces in the world to get where he was today. His mother Aurora hadn’t been around for most of his childhood, especially following the birth of Octavia. When Octavia was barely seven years old they lost Aurora to crippling disease, leaving a teenage Bellamy to care for them both. He worked a number of odd, often-grueling labor jobs: stable boy, footservant, scullery hand. When he turned fifteen he signed up for the royal cadet program at the first opportunity, only to be waitlisted for months. Finally getting accepted into the program changed Bellamy’s whole world, giving him a stable job and steady income to support Octavia on.

“But Bellamy, I can’t keep making exceptions for you and your sister. I’m pushing the limit as it is, and I don’t need the Council or the Chancellor on my case.”

“Please, sir, give her one more chance,” Bellamy implored, tired of making this case too many times. “I swear, I’ll talk to her, and she’ll stay out of trouble. I promise she will.”

“Here’s a deal for you, Cadet,” Kane spoke slowly, “I have a task that I need done, one that would usually require a small team to carry out. However, with the preparations for the Unity Day celebration and the tensions along our Trikru border, we’re running a bit short-staffed right now. So you will carry out this assignment alone.

“There is a particular girl, a young woman really, currently residing in or around the village of Tondc, in the southern part of Ark. She is of the highest importance to the Council, and must be brought back here to Station City as soon as possible.”

“Who is she?” Bellamy said, raising an eyebrow.

“Our sources say she goes by the name of ‘Clarke’. I don’t have all of the details, but I know she _must_ be brought to the capital with haste. This order comes directly from the Chancellor himself.” Kane relayed this, lying through his teeth. He knew exactly who this Clarke girl was, but he didn’t need to be spreading the news to everyone, Blake included. Not yet, at least.

“So, you’re sending me to one of the farthest villages in Ark, to retrieve a very important girl but won’t tell me why?”

“My orders come from the Chancellor, Blake,” Kane huffed, “I can’t explain every single one of them. What I _can_ give you,” he said, handing the cadet a stack of papers, “Is all of the information I’m allowed to give. There’s a map to the village, and a description of Clarke – medium height and build, blonde hair, birthmark, the likes. There’s also a custody order from both myself and Chancellor Jaha, so she is obligated by law to come with you.”

Kane raised his eyebrows, looking Bellamy directly in the face. “If you can retrieve this girl and bring her to Station City before Unity Day, then I will release your sister and wipe away her charges. If you cannot, then I have no choice but to uphold Arkian law and carry out the punishment for Octavia’s crimes. Understand me?”

He watched Bellamy swallow, his face becoming paler and more drawn. “If that is the deal,” Bellamy said hesitantly, “Then this cannot be an easy task to carry out, can it?”

“This Clarke girl --- she does not want to be found. She’s been in hiding for many years now, and that’s why it will be difficult to bring her back to Ark.”

“Why me, then?”

“Why _not_ you?” Kane shrugged in response. “You have something you’re willing to fight for – your sister. That makes you all the more motivated. Besides, I’ve heard you can be convincing when you want to be. Look at the number of times you’ve convinced me to overlook your sister’s offenses.”

Bellamy took a quick flip through the pages, “So, she’s very important to the Chancellor and Council, and she doesn’t want to be found… Anything else I should know?”

“Yes,” Kane leaned forward across the desk. “You are to carry out this mission with as little outside interaction as possible. As in, don’t talk to others if you can help it. We’re trying to keep this quiet.”

“A _secret_ mission,” Bellamy mumbled, “Even better.”

“This is your chance, Blake,” Kane said sternly, “And your _last_ chance for Octavia. The sooner you bring back Clarke, the sooner Octavia goes free.”

Bellamy gave a curt nod. “May I see her before I leave? Octavia, I mean.”

“Yes, she’s being kept in the western wing of the dungeon.”

“Thank you, General,” Bellamy said, standing up and crossing to the door.

“Best of luck to you, Blake,” Kane called without looking up from his desk, “You’ll need it.”

* * *

Bellamy descended the steps two at a time, hurrying his way down the spiral staircase. His breathing seemed loud and labored in his ears, though he wasn’t feeling tired. He was feeling worried. The mental image of Octavia locked up in the dungeons… well, that had always been one of his worst fears.

When he reached the bottom, he spotted a round-faced prison guard absentmindedly playing with his enormous ring of keys. The guard raised a single eyebrow at Bellamy, but didn’t bother moving or speaking.

“I’m looking for Octavia Blake, she was brought here this afternoon,” Bellamy said, the sentence sounding like one long, extended word.

Giving a short grunt in reply, the guard stood up and led Bellamy deeper into the hallway. Down here, several stories beneath the palace, the air was oddly cold and tangibly dank. Everything was stone walls and iron bars and dripping puddles on the floor. Bellamy passed by cell after cell, trying not to look too long at the haggard prisoners kept inside. The Chancellor had a penchant for keeping the prisons full.

The guard turned toward one of the cells on his left, slipping a key – indistinguishable from any of his others – into the lock on the door. Glancing through the bars, Bellamy saw a familiar form sitting in shadow.

“Bellamy?”

She called out for him, and a thousand emotions rattled through his heart. Relief, anger, fear, love, disappointment, the list could go on and on. The moment the guard wrenched open the door to her cell, Bellamy pushed through.

“Ten minutes,” said the guard, shutting the door behind Bellamy. He took in the sight of his sister, sitting on the wet floor. Her hair was tangled and skirts were bunched up to expose her knees. Two iron shackles clamped around her wrists, with a small length of chain running between them. If he could’ve removed his emotions from the situation, Bellamy would’ve seen that Octavia was lucky. She could walk around freely, and her shackles barely restricted movement of her arms. Her cell had a cot off the ground and a small lantern that illuminated the cell in a soft golden light. She could have been a lot worse off.

But all Bellamy could think about was his sister locked up, in a cell like an animal in a cage. And it made him seethe.

“What was it this time?” He asked, folding his arms.

Octavia looked up at him pitifully from the floor. “It wasn’t my fault, Bell. It really wasn’t. It was Atom, he wanted my help.”

Bellamy bit his lip, turning away. “It’s always someone else’s fault, isn’t it?”

“It _was_ this time, Bell! Atom snagged these pocket-watches from a vendor’s cart, we were going to sell them off… He needed me to hold the watches while he found his contact from the underground market. He left me with the watches in the town square and… I guess he forgot to come back for me.”

“He set you up, dammit. He played you!”

“We needed that money,” Octavia pleaded, sliding forwards onto her knees. “We were going to get away from here!”

Bellamy stopped, eyes going wide. “Going to _what_?”

“I’ve lived in Station City my entire life, Bellamy,” Octavia said, fumbling for the right words. She talked with her hands, as though she could physically pull the words out of the air. “And with you working more and more at the palace… Atom talked about leaving the capital and moving out, and I wanted to go with him. I thought it was time for me to leave, to see the rest of Ark.”

“He played you, O,” Bellamy spoke through tight lips, “He probably realized it would be too risky to sell off those watches, so he left you behind to take the fall while he got away.”

“I loved him,” Octavia said in a gasp, “Or, I thought I loved him.”

It broke Bellamy’s heart to see her this way. He knelt down in front of her, brushing a lock of dark hair out of her eyes. “You always tell me I’m too protective of you, Octavia,” he spoke gently. “Well, this is the very thing I’m trying to protect you from. I --- I can’t see you get hurt. I can’t live with myself.”

“Don’t worry,” Octavia forced a grimacing smile, “If I ever see that bastard again, I’ll kick his ass.”

“I just might beat you to it.”

Octavia tossed her chain behind Bellamy’s head and pulled him into a tight embrace. She nestled her head under his chin while he stroked back her tangled hair. If he closed his eyes, he could forget that they were sitting in a damp jail cell underneath the palace, Octavia wearing shackles on her tiny wrists. He could pretend that they were at home, in their tiny apartment by the moat, the one he’d worked so hard to afford.

“Octavia,” he said, pulling away and easing the chain back over his head, “I’m going away for a little while. General Kane is sending me on a special mission.”

She looked as skeptical as he felt, “Special mission? Where?”

“A village in the south called Tondc. I’m supposed to find someone and bring them back here to the palace. It’s all secret and such, a direct order from the Chancellor.”

“If it’s so important and secret, why send _you_? No offense, but don’t they have teams to carry out those kinds of missions?”

“Kane made me a deal,” Bellamy looked down, slightly embarrassed that it had come to this. “If I find their target and bring her back to Station City before Unity Day, then Kane will let you go and erase your charges.”

Octavia’s mouth fell open, “All of them?”

“All of them. You’ll get an entirely clean slate.”

“And what happens if you _can’t_ find this target?”

Bellamy pressed his fingers into his temples, “Kane won’t make any more exceptions for you. Those misdemeanors… they’ll add up fast.”

Octavia put two and two together, and her arched brows furrowed. “So _I’m_ the deal, then. Kane’s making you do this to save me. Instead of sending a trained, qualified _team_ to carry out this mission, he’s sending a single cadet to fight for his sister.”

“It’s not a bad deal, O,” Bellamy insisted. “If Kane didn’t know me so well – and like me as much as he does – he never would’ve released you from jail those times before. He’s offering you a second chance.”

“You _do_ release this can’t be an easy mission, then? If this – my freedom – is your prize for completing it, then it has to be dangerous.”

“I can handle dangerous, Octavia. Working at the palace hasn’t made me _too_ soft.”

“If something were to happen to you, while you were trying to save _me_ \---”

“Don’t worry,” he reassured her, tweaking her nose with his thumb. “Besides, I got this.”

A jingling metallic sound cut the air in the cell, and the prison guard wrenched the door open. “Visiting time is over.”

“Bell!” Octavia threw her arms around him again --- or, as much as she could with the shackles she was wearing. “Be careful, big brother.”

“I will. I’ll come back for you, O, and get you out of here.”

“I love you, Bellamy.”

“Love you too.”

As the guard shuffled Bellamy out of the cell and down the hall, he forced himself to keep his head forward and not steal another heartbreaking glance at his sister, chained in that cage.

_My sister, my responsibility._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos or comment if you enjoyed it :)  
> -K.T.


	3. Tondc

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!” Jasper’s taunting voice cut through Clarke’s muddled dreams, shocking her out of sleep. She groggily sat up, giving a bearlike groan. “Sleeping the whole day away, aren’t we?” Jasper poked Clarke in the stomach. Snarling back at him, she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.

“I was just taking a little nap, I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I wonder why,” Jasper responded with sarcasm. “Tell me: how is Finny boy doing? How’d he _sleep_ last night?”

“That’s none of your damn business,” Clarke growled under her breath, sliding out from the worn hammock. She immediately regretted waking up; sleep sounded like a much better idea.

Reaching for a nearby canteen, Clarke took a swig of lukewarm water as her eyes took in the camp around her. In the summer months the forest was a nice place to be: warm enough, with the overhead canopy blocking out the direct sunlight and heat. She, Jasper, and Monty moved from place to place every few months, but they liked camping outside in the summer.

And for a camp, they had it pretty nice. The three of them rotated between the one hammock and two bedrolls, with strung-up tarps providing extra shade. A cooking fire would be lit in the center of their camp, with the makeshift riggings of a small stove over the coals. They were never too far from a well or stream, and each of them had become proficient hunters for dinner and trading. But the most important part of camp, by far, was the cluster of copper and wood that made up the distillery. From a distance it looked like an odd mess of metal piping and barrels and jars. But somehow, Jasper and Monty managed to cook up some terrifyingly-effective moonshine that had become a hit in the local taverns. Moonshine equaled money.

“This is just about done, Clarke,” Monty called out, brushing his hair from his eyes as he stared into one of the barrels. “Bring this batch into town?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clarke stretched, then strolled over to fill up a jug. The intoxicating scent hit her like a slap in the face. “Dammit, that stuff is strong.”

“Wouldn’t be our special recipe if it wasn’t.” Monty gave a smirk.

“You’ll have half the town completely wasted on this stuff,” Clarke stoppered the jug, “What good influences you two are.”

“Come on, like you don’t have your fair share of delinquency,” Jasper rolled his eyes, using the worn hem of his shirt to wipe the perpetually-smudged lenses of his goggles. “You’re a better pickpocket then Monty and I combined.”

“And you know it.” Clarke attached a loop onto the jug and hooked it over her shoulder. Hoping to conceal the moonshine, she also donned her long black cloak. It was a simple, practical garment, stolen from a drunken peddler who’d gotten too friendly with Clarke at a nearby town’s tavern. He’d tried to feel her up, so she retaliated by stealing his cloak. Fair enough.

“Could you stop by the blacksmith’s?” Monty asked Clarke. “I commissioned a new connector piece for this copper tubing, and they should have it finished.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Don’t pay any more than three silver pieces for it. Bargain him down, especially if you’re talking to Ridley. That Reyes girl will give you a better price, but Ridley will try to bleed you dry.”

“I’m sure I can handle him,” Clarke said reassuringly. “Try not to catch yourselves on fire while I’m gone.”

“No guarantees,” Jasper answered with a lazy grin. Clarke stuck her tongue out at him as she marched towards the town. Those two were practically her brothers, so it was natural that she worried about them from time to time. Sometimes she felt like their sister, and other times like their mother.

Tondc was its normal self that afternoon: busy for a small town but quiet in comparison to larger cities. Most people gathered around the hodgepodge street market, which buzzed with trading and energy. Clarke wove her way through the crowd, keeping her head down and jug of moonshine pressed tightly under her arm. Carving a path towards the tavern – named “City of Light” – Clarke approached the worn wooden door and gave it a push.

Inside, the tavern was humming with life. The lights were low and cast by lanterns hanging around the walls. From some shadowy corner a halfway-decent fiddler was playing a jaunty tune. Chatter filled the air alongside the thick stench of alcohol and sweat. Clarke shoved her way to the front counter before tugging down her hood.

“Murphy,” she called to the tavern keeper, watching him turn and recognize her.

“Well, look who’s decided to grace us with her presence.” He grinned, the corners of his mouth pinching upwards. He set down the glass he was drying and leaned forward on his elbows. “What can I get for you today?”

“No drink for me, at least not yet.” She answered back, untying her loop and lifting the heavy jug onto the countertop. “But I’ve got your latest delivery.”

Murphy’s hooded eyes swept the tavern, double checking for any guards or officials. In accordance with the Chancellor’s orders, all alcohol was supposed to be heavily taxed. This drove up all the prices and wrecked the tavern scene. It was only through the supply of untaxed illegal distilleries – Jasper and Monty’s being one of the most prominent – that local taverns survived.

Murphy grabbed a coin sack from beneath the countertop and began pulling out Clarke’s payment. He set the coins down and grabbed the jug from her hand. “Nice to do business with you, then.”

Clarke counted the coins twice, “You shortchanged me, Murphy.”

“Excuse me?”

“Last time I got five more bronze pieces for this jug,” Clarke said pointedly. “I don’t forget that easily.”

Murphy begrudgingly shelled out the correct number of coins, “Money doesn’t just grow on trees, Clarke.”

“Coming from a guy who can actually afford to sleep indoors.”

“I’ve offered you a room here more times that I could count,” Murphy reminded her, giving her a quick eye-sweep that made her even more uncomfortable.

“With you sleeping just down that hall?” Clarke’s eyebrows jumped, “I don’t think so.” She swept the coins into her pocket and dusted off her hands. “That’ll be all for me today.”

“Don’t want to stay for a quick drink, Clarke? On the house.”

“Nah, I’ve got some more stops to make,” She rose from the barstool and spoke over her shoulder. “Have a good one, Murphy."

 

* * *

 

“Raven?” Clarke called out into the noisy shop, closing the door behind her. The blacksmith’s shop always lingered at a much higher temperature than the rest of the world, from the enormous furnaces in the workshop. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to work long days in such a place. “You there?”

“She’s out of town,” came a gruff voice walking in from the back room. Clarke recognized the bearded face of Cuyler Ridley, the shop’s owner. He wore a grimy apron and thick, long gloves reaching halfway up his massive forearms. With his large size and furrowed brows, he was an intimidating man. “What do you want?”

“Where’s Raven? She’s supposed to have a piece that my friend commissioned.”

“I told you, she’s out of town.” Ridley responded, irritated. Raven Reyes was his apprentice and the only female blacksmith Clarke had ever seen. Also singlehandedly the _best_ blacksmith Clarke had ever seen. “I sent her east to pick up some ore that I’d had arranged. She should be back in a few days.”

“Oh,” Clarke answered awkwardly. “I’ve got a piece that I’m supposed to pick up… it’s a connector for some copper tubing?”

Ridley pulled open a drawer and found the described piece. “This?” Clarke nodded, and he gave her the price. After debating over it for a few minutes, Clarke shaved a few bronze pieces off Ridley’s original charge.

He didn’t look too happy about that at all. “This kind of piece for copper piping… Sounds like you’ve got some distilling going on. _Illegal_ distilling, I might add. Wouldn’t want _that_ getting to the local authorities, now would we?”

Clarke almost laughed out loud: Ridley absolutely _reeked_ of a very familiar scent. “If you cut us off, then you’re cutting off your moonshine source. Yeah, I can smell it on your breath, that’s our stuff. Actually, I can smell it all over you.”

Ridley bit his tongue and grumbled to himself. “Just take your damn connector already.”

“Gladly,” Clarke said sarcastically before turning on her heel and leaving.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy’s eyes flickered between the map in his hands and the road before him. So far, it felt like he was making a snail’s progress to the southern corner of Ark. His shoulders sagged with the weight of his pack and the heaviness of this journey. It was only the mental image of Octavia in chains that kept him marching forward.

He took a deep breath through his nose, breathing in the crisp forest air. Ark, as a kingdom, was naturally beautiful. It was entirely landlocked with rivers and mountains crisscrossing the country. All along its forested eastern side ran the border between Ark and Trikru, a nation that had been growing increasingly hostile towards Arkians. There were rumblings at the palace and among the guard that war was coming.

Bellamy turned at the sound of wagon wheels coming towards him from behind. He moved to the side of the road as a horse-pulled cart came closer. He could make out the forms of two figures sitting behind the driver. Hearing a call, he watched as the cart slowed and approached him.

“Sir, you’re from the royal guard, aren’t you?” asked the pretty woman sitting in the bed of the cart. A shawl around her head framed a round, exotic face, and black hair spilled out from underneath the fabric. She looked older than him, yet of an indescribable age. The woman must’ve recognized Bellamy’s uniform, with the standard navy shirt and polished chestplate of a guard.

“Yes, ma’am I am.”

 “Would you like a ride? I’d hate for a guard like yourself to have to walk when we have room in our cart.” She offered, motioning to their cart. There was only one other person seated beside her: a young girl who couldn’t have been much older than twelve. She watched Bellamy with wide, doe-like eyes.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Bellamy said, feeling weary. “I’d appreciate that.” The cart slowed to a halt and Bellamy hopped over the side. He settled down on the wooden floor, taking in his new companions. They seemed innocent enough, with no visible weapons or suspicious belongings.

“Which way are you heading, then?” The older woman asked, her voice gentle.

“Towards the bridge just before the valley. Slightly to the east, a good several miles down.”

“We’ll pass by their on our way home,” she said, “We can drop you off.”

“Thank you.” It felt good to slide his pack off his shoulders.

“My name’s Callie,” said the dark-haired woman. She indicated her younger traveling partner, “And this is Charlotte.”

“Hello,” Charlotte said in a timid voice.

“Nice to meet you, Charlotte,” he said gently, not trying to intimidate the child as she took in his armor and uniform. “My name is Bellamy.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke walked slowly through the stables. Honestly, it wasn’t her favorite place to be. She’d never been too comfortable around horses, even as a young child at the palace. They were beautiful animals, she’d agree to that, but she didn’t love them. And the smell of hay and horse droppings was overwhelming.

“Finn?” She called out in a quiet voice, trying not to startle any of the horses on either side of her. A rustling sound came from her left, and she turned towards the open stable door.  

Clarke took in the familiar figure silhouetted by a sunny sky: His hair was long and dark, and he carried a large sack of horse feed in muscled arms. Clarke’s heart couldn’t help but race at the sight of him.

“Hey,” he breathed out, setting down the sack as Clarke hurried towards him. She flew into his arms, giggling as he picked her up and spun her. His lips found her neck and she exhaled with a sigh.

“Hey yourself,” Clarke said, sparkling eyes finding his brown ones. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“Only one week left until my birthday.”

Finn’s eyebrows twisted in mock confusion, “I thought you said it was last year.”

“Idiot,” Clarke playfully swatted at him, face falling into a smile.

“So, then,” Finn asked, letting Clarke settle into his arms, “What do you want for your birthday? If you could have anything… anything in the world?”

 _My father_ was Clarke’s immediate thought, then _my family. A stable life, one where I wouldn’t have to hide_. But she pushed that down, knowing that she couldn’t share all of that with Finn yet. She’d shared many things, but her true identity couldn’t be one of them. Not _yet_.

“I’d want to get away,” she said finally. Clarke pulled away from Finn’s arms to step out of the doorway into the sunlight. “I’d want to travel, to see the world outside of Ark. Maybe we should go? We could go to the sea, along the coast. I’ve always wanted to see the coast.”

“Clarke,” Finn hesitated, his face falling slightly, “I --- I can’t just leave.”

“Why not, Finn?” Clarke grabbed for his hands. “Just you and me. We could start a new life together.”

“But we have lives _here_ ,” he insisted, eyes faltering. “I can’t just leave Tondc. I have a job and… commitments. And you have Jasper and Monty.”

“They’d understand, they’ve always wanted the best for me. And,” she said, playing with a string on his shirt, “Aren’t you the best for me?”

His eyes seemed to wander anywhere else besides her own, “Clarke, someday we’ll get out of here, I promise. Just… not yet.”

She nodded, losing some of the sparkle in her face. “Okay.”

“Hey,” he said, pushing a golden lock of hair behind her ear. “Want to borrow some of these horses and go for a ride? My boss won’t be back until much later, he’ll never even know.”

“I don’t know, Finn,” Clarke bit her lip, “Maybe we could go into town? How about the tavern, harass Murphy a bit?”

“Well,” he said, picking up his sack of feed and carrying it inside. “What if I don’t want to share you with Murphy and the rest of the town? What if I want you all to myself?”

Clarke folded her arms and leaned back against the stable’s walls. “Somebody really doesn’t like sharing, does he?”

Finn opened his mouth to respond, then decided otherwise and leaned in for a kiss instead. Clarke couldn’t be grumpy towards him with his lips pressed against hers, so she gave in.

“Fine, horse ride it is.”

 

* * *

 

The steady bouncing of the cart on the road lulled his new companions to sleep, yet Bellamy remained wide awake. His eyes scanned the dark forest around him, trying not to fixate on what he could not see lurking in the shadows. He’d lived his entire life in the bustling metropolis of Station City, so his knowledge of the rest of Ark was limited to what he could read in books and see on maps. Words and pictures couldn’t quite capture the strange feeling he was getting: riding through the forest at night, on a mission where Octavia’s freedom depended on his success.

Out of nervous habit, Bellamy found himself chewing on his thumb’s cuticle. If Octavia were with him, she would scold him for doing it, just like his mother had always done. How Octavia had picked up on Aurora’s tone and mood when angry was far beyond Bellamy. Aurora had rarely been home throughout Octavia’s childhood, leaving Bellamy to be mother and father to his younger sister. Yet, sometimes the similarities between the two women were frighteningly alike.

Bellamy’s final memories of his mother were the most heartbreaking and the hardest for him to hold. He recalled those last terrifying nights in their small hovel of a home, Aurora coughing and growing more and more yellow in complexion by the minute. Bellamy, barely thirteen years old, had begged his mother to let him call for a doctor. _“Please, Mom,”_ he’d whimpered, clutching her hand like he’d sink without it, _“I’ll be quick. I’ll find a doctor, he’ll help you get better.”_

 _“There’s no money, Bellamy,”_ Aurora had said, her pained face falling into a sad grimace, almost a smile. It made his stomach twist. _“Keep what little we have for when I’m gone.”_

That night, Bellamy had broken down. The moment the life left his mother’s eyes, he was overcome with a crippling feeling of being alone. He’d cried until his eyes were aching and empty of tears, and then the anger settled in. Bellamy could remember, through his haze of emotions, tossing a chair against the wall and watching the back two legs shatter. He could remember finding a lone bottle of whisky stashed in his mother’s personal belongings, and he drank it to the last drop.

Bellamy could remember sitting, crumpled against the wall beside his dead mother’s bed when Octavia walked in. Her eyes were red and nose was runny, and she held tight onto the simple ragdoll Aurora had made her – one of his mother’s few acts of kindness towards the daughter she’d never wanted. He had never felt so pathetic in his life, sitting in drunken anger with an empty bottle of whisky, while his seven-year-old sister stared solemnly at her dead mother’s form.

Bellamy could remember hugging Octavia and crying into her dark hair, the two of them staying together until the sun rose the next morning.

A small sneeze roused him from his recollections, and Bellamy turned to see Charlotte stirring from sleep. Or perhaps she hadn’t slept at all.

“Why are you traveling alone?” She asked him in a quiet voice, not wanting to wake Callie.

“An assignment from the palace,” Bellamy answered, his tone indicating that _that_ was all he could say about his job. “How about you? Where are you traveling to?”

“Miss Callie is delivering me from the orphanage, that’s her job.” Charlotte said, playing with the fraying end of her skirt as she sat cross-legged. “My uncle has decided to claim me, so she’s bringing me to my new family. Like adoption, but… it’s my uncle.”

“That must be exciting,” Bellamy said encouragingly, “A fresh start, with a new family. Fresh starts are hard to come by.” _Octavia_.

“I guess so,” she answered, slow to speak. “It’s just that… I don’t like being around my uncle.”

Bellamy frowned, “Why not?”’

“He drinks too much, he always has. And when he does, he lashes out,” Charlotte kept her eyes down. “Last time I visited him he got mad at me and hit me.”

“ _Hit_ you?” Bellamy repeated, stealing a glance at Callie. “Does Miss Callie know about this?”

“My uncle promised that he is sober now. Miss Callie and the rest of them at the orphanage believe him. I’m not sure I do.” Charlotte sighed, her posture physically collapsing with the release of breath. Bellamy imagined it might have felt good to talk to someone about it. “I just… I don’t want to always be _scared_.”

“Hey,” Bellamy leaned forward, like what he was about to share was a secret. He saw the effect, sparking curiosity in Charlotte’s eyes. “The fear can only get to you if you let it. You can be in control, you can fight the fear so you don’t feel it anymore.”

“Yeah, but how?”

“By telling yourself that you’re brave. Everyone is brave, somewhere deep down. Some of us have that hiding just a little deeper than others.” He cracked a sideways smile. “The next time you’re afraid, you just close your eyes, ball up your fist, and say ‘screw you, I’m not afraid’. Hear me?”

“‘Screw you, I’m not afraid’,” Charlotte repeated, trying out the words.

“That’s it, keep telling yourself that you’re brave, and soon you will be. That’s how you slay your demons.”

“Demons?”

“Yeah, like the things inside you that make you scared or weak. The kind of stuff that keeps you awake at night and haunts you.”

Charlotte nodded, “What are your demons, then?”

“My demons…” Bellamy drew his knees closer to his chest, hesitant to respond. His mind conjured up images of Octavia, receiving lashes for her crimes or other tortures, or worse… “You don’t want to know, kid.”

The cart turned left on the road, and Charlotte pointed into the moonlit darkness behind Bellamy’s head. “Isn’t that your bridge?”

He took in the shadowy sight of the stone bridge, checking with his map several times. “That looks like it.” Spinning towards the front of the cart, he asked the driver to stop by the bend in the road.

“You’re leaving?” Charlotte asked, confused. “Now?”

“I’ve got to keep going, kid,” he answered, slipping the map back into his pack.

“But it’s the middle of the night? Won’t you get lost?”

‘I’ll find my way,” Bellamy swung one leg over the side of the cart, then another and hopped down onto the ground. “Give another thank you from me to Callie when she wakes up, okay?”

“I will,” Charlotte nodded, “And I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

He flashed a smile again, “Remember, Charlotte, ‘Screw you, I’m not afraid’. That’s how you’ll slay your demons.”

 

 

 


	4. The Confrontation

“Cheers,” Monty grinned, holding up his tarnished metal cup with pride. “To another brilliant batch by Yours Truly.”

Jasper clinked mugs with Monty, then frowned in thought, “Wait, why is this one _your_ batch? I worked on it too.”

“Yeah, but I definitely stirred it for longer. That makes it mine.”

Jasper contemplated for a moment, then shrugged sluggishly. “Fair enough.” He took a deep swig of moonshine.

“Clarke, want one?” Monty offered, pouring out a splash into Clarke’s mug. She accepted it and took a sip, feeling fire slosh down her throat. Her nose burned as she exhaled, eyes fuzzy and refocusing.

“Wow, strong as always.” She set her mug down, wanting to stay sharp for the rest of her day. Their food stash had been running low, and Clarke was hoping to make it into town to barter for some bread. While Jasper and Monty downed their mugs of moonshine, Clarke busied herself with rewrapping her left wrist. Laying the familiar cloth bandage over her royal mark, she slid the fabric around her arm several times before looping it over her thumb and into a knot.

It had been sheer luck that Jasper and Monty hadn’t noticed Clarke’s mark for several months. At first, it had been the filthy mud that covered the royal tattoo, until she had the intuition to cover it up. She’d crafted some halfway-decent excuse for the bandage on her wrist, claiming it was a cut that had yet to heal properly. And being that Jasper and Monty were two young boys - each too wrapped up in their own worlds - they hadn’t bothered to think otherwise. In fact, Jasper spent the first few months trying to forget Clarke was even there, while Monty was too shy to speak.

That didn’t last for long, though. And Clarke had been living with them for just over a year when Monty finally noticed the mark on her wrist.

_“What’s on your arm?”_

_Clarke jerked her head upwards, not having heard Monty approach from behind. She’d been washing off her hands in the stream, focusing on the calming splashing sounds and sensation of water over her fingers. The bandage she typically wore was lying by her side._

_“_ What’s _on my arm?” Clarke repeated, instinctively covering the mark with her other hand._ Great thinking, Clarke, _she told herself,_ Like that won’t make him suspicious.

_“It looked like a tattoo or something, right here,” Monty motioned to the same spot on his left wrist, then moved to gently tug on Clarke’s other hand. “C’mon, let me see.”_

_“No, Monty.”_

_“Why not?” He playfully pushed her, causing her to lose her crouching balance and topple over. Clarke’s hands splayed out to steady her fall, exposing her left wrist plain and clear for Monty to see. She watched a change fall over his face as he took in the tattooed image of a fancy script G encircled by a crown._

_“I know that sign,” Monty said, eyes growing both surprised and confused. “Everyone knows that sign…”_

_“Monty, listen to me---”_

_“That’s the sign of the royal family,” he said breathlessly, catching the gaze of a curious Jasper over Clarke’s shoulder. “That’s the sign of the royal family.”_

_“Let me see,” Jasper dropped beside Clarke and grabbed her arm a little too roughly. She squealed as he dragged it closer to his face, examining the mark. “Holy hell, that’s the sign all right.”_

_“Why are you tattooed with the sign of the royal family?”_

_“Let me explain…” Clarke didn’t know the right words to say. Everything seemed too loud and too bright to her brain, and her head was pounding. She knew in her heart that she couldn’t lie her way out of this one, but the truth was dangerous. It had always proven to be dangerous._

_“Wait a minute,” Monty spoke quietly, looking betrayed. He was putting it all together. “The princess… they said she died but they never found her body… That was just over a year ago…”_

_“Monty---”_

_“That was around the same time we found_ you _.”_

_Jasper’s eyebrows furrowed, “You don’t mean…”_

_“Well, are you, Clarke? Or should I say… your_ Highness _?”_

Clarke remembered the sheer terror she felt in that moment, as though a year of companionship with Jasper and Monty wouldn’t have been enough to keep them from turning her in. She’d begged them to keep her secret, and had been surprised when they agreed to without a second thought. Remarkably, they treated Clarke no differently because of her background and birth. Her royal mark – and her birthright as heir – was not typically spoken about.

Rising up off the ground, Clarke dusted off her leggings and spoke, “I’m going to pass through town, does anyone want to come with me?”

“Where are you going?” Jasper asked.

“First I’m going to see how much Morgan will charge me for some bread around here, I’m tired of the same old food every day. And afterwards I wanted to stop by Finn. It’s been a few days since I’ve last seen him.”

Jasper snorted, “No thanks, enjoy your cuddle time with the stable boy. I’ll pass.”

“I’ll pass too,” Monty said, “I’ve got some parts I want to fiddle with, see if I can expand the distillery for cheap.”

“Suit yourself,” Clarke said, grabbing her familiar cloak and wrapping it around her shoulders. “Try not to miss me too much, boys.”

“Tell Finn we say hello,” offered Monty with a little smile. Clarke’s last glimpse of camp showed the two of them, each sitting with their back against a tree, clinking mugs together with half-drunken grins on their faces.

 

* * *

 

When Clarke approached Tondc from her usual wooded route, she could feel something was different. The streets weren’t as crowded as they normally were; in fact, she couldn’t see a person in sight. The sun was high in the sky, yet the town seemed unnaturally quiet. Each one of Clarke’s light footsteps sounded far too loud in her ears for her own liking. She was accustomed to being sneaky, able to slip in and out of crowds without being detected. The quiet was too exposing.

Clarke tugged her hood lower over her face, not that there was anyone around to see her. She passed through a reeking alley towards the center of town, hoping to find Finn at the stables where he normally worked. As she exited the alley, she realized why the town was so quiet: everybody who was _anybody_ was at the town square, gathered in a growing mob.

Normally, Clarke tended to steer clear of massive mobs, instead preferring to sit back and let the townspeople tear each other apart. But, on a sunny day like today, there were too many people clustered in one area for Clarke to _not_ want to pick pockets.

She drew closer slowly, trying to size up the scale of the crowd. The conditions looked perfect: a giant mass of preoccupied people pressed up against together with just enough room for someone to slip away. They were jostling each other, trying to move forwards towards something in the middle.

Clarke finally was able to see what everyone wanted to: two wooden stocks had been set up on a platform in the center of the square. Inside, a pitiful-looking man and blushing woman each had their head and wrists confined, leaving them hunched forward in a humiliating position. Standing nearby, a uniformed town official proclaimed their sin: adultery.

Clarke bit her lip, feeling slightly embarrassed for staring at the uncomfortable pair. In Ark, adultery was considered a moral crime if discovered by an official. The offenders wouldn’t receive more than a day in the stocks, yet that would be humiliating enough. From somewhere deep in the crowd flew a rotten tomato, hitting the wooden board just beside the adulterous woman’s head. Clarke could only imagine how she must’ve felt, being the woman her lover cheated on his wife with. Her stomach felt awkward at the mere thought of it.

Reaching the edge of the crowd, Clarke slipped among the townspeople in the back and wove her way forwards. She spotted her first target: a shiny golden bangle that was too large for its waiflike owner’s wrist. Angling herself towards the right, Clarke bumped into the woman on her left side, feeling the cool metal of the bangle brush her palm. Thrown off balance, the woman didn’t notice the bracelet sliding from her wrist into Clarke’s hand, and the thief had vanished before the owner could even turn her head.

As Clarke slipped the bangle onto her own wrist her wandering eyes spotted more loot: a silver-plated pocketwatch hanging precariously from a gentleman’s pants pocket. It was too tantalizingly easy for Clarke to pass up. Keeping her head down, she moved deeper into the crowd.

 

* * *

 

 

Bellamy approached Tondc from the main road, crossing slowly across the stone bridge into town. By now, his feet ached and shoulders were sore, yet he marched forwards with the same driven determination that he’d carried the past few days. _For Octavia_ , he kept reminding himself.

His eyes flickered over the small buildings around him, sprouting up from the cobblestone streets like they’d grown there. Most of the shops were open, yet completely empty. From deeper in town, he could hear the muffled sound of a crowd, and he assumed _that_ was where everyone was.

Pulling the file from his pack, Bellamy gave another read through his target profile: medium height and build, blond wavy hair reaching past her shoulders, light-colored eyes, birthmark over left of her lip. He read on, thankful that the previous scout had described this Clarke in such detail. He knew the type of cloak and boots to watch out for, along with where she typically could be found. At the top of the list: the forest bordering the western edge of town.

Bellamy slid the paper back into his pack and made his way towards the center of town. He saw how the townspeople had gathered around a platform with two offenders in stocks. The crowd was hurling things at the man and woman: old fruits and vegetables or chunks of dirt from the ground. Slipping into the shadows against a building’s wall, Bellamy hopped up onto an overturned crate and gave a quick search over the crowd.

Most people were pushing and shoving lightly, trying to jostle their way to the front. All except one hooded figure, who kept weaving in and out, like they couldn’t decide where they wanted to go. Bellamy watched this person bump into another clumsily, then dart off in the other direction. He’d spent enough time in Station City to recognize those maneuvers: a pickpocket.

As the pickpocket reached the edges of the crowd, Bellamy spotted the simple trim and fastenings of the cloak, along with the beaten-down boots they wore. Everything matched his given description perfectly. He squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of their face.

That’s when the pickpocket turned too quickly, their hood snagging on someone else’s vest and falling down from their face. It was the face of a girl, fair and flushed, framed by golden hair leaking out of a braid. Her eyes were bright and they darted around like fish; she quickly tugged the hood back up. But Bellamy had seen enough.

 _So they sent me to fetch a pickpocket?_ The wheels in his mind spurred back to life, and an idea popped into his head. From deep in this pack he pulled out his money pouch, and he loosely fastened it around his belt. It hung in plain sight, right where a pickpocket could grab it.

 

* * *

 

“Filthy adulterous scum!”

The man beside Clarke hurled another piece of garbage – this time, a melon rind – at the stocks. As his arm rose over his head, Clarke’s eyes searched him for any exposed valuables. Nothing that she could easily grab. Her own pockets were filling up with jewelry and watches, and she was itching to slip away towards Nygel’s to pawn off her stolen goods. Moving swiftly and silently, Clarke moved to the edge of the mob.

Something caught the corner of her eye, and Clarke turned. She spotted a worn, yet full, money pouch, dangling from the belt of someone in the crowd. The man who wore it had his back to Clarke and he seemed too distracted to even notice her. It was perfect. It was easy.

It was too easy.

Somewhere deep in Clarke’s brain warnings were ringing out. But all she could think of were Monty’s ratty old boots, or how Jasper had grown too tall for his patched-up pants, or how nice it would be to afford a real room indoors. So she sidled up beside the distracted man, unsheathed her knife, and slit the cord off the pouch. It fell into her hand without a sound.

Clarke would’ve slipped away if she hadn’t felt the firm grip of a hand around her upper arm. She turned quickly, surprised to see the distracted man staring down at her. He wasn’t angry, no, in fact something in his dark eyes bled relief. Clarke’s heart began to race. She’d never gotten caught before, _never_. Yanking her arm away from him, she backed up quickly and ran from the crowd.

Clarke expected him to shout after her, to draw attention to the loaded pickpocket dashing away from a wiped-clean crowd. But he never did. Instead, he simply ran after her, keeping up as she ducked between alleys and buildings. She tried to lose him by cutting through storefronts or between carts, but when she threw a glance over her shoulder she saw him still behind her.

Reaching the edge of a familiar alley, Clarke pushed open two of the wooden boards on the fence, revealing a small crack to slip through. She edged her body in between the boards and stumbled out onto the dirt on the other side. Clarke rolled down a small hill, and when she stood she found herself at the bottom of a dirt ravine. The walls weren’t high, but it would take some climbing and a steady pair of feet to reach the top. Clarke began searching for rocks and roots for footholds when she heard her pursuer slide into the ravine behind her. Panic began to well up in her chest, and she spun around.

“Here,” Clarke held up the pouch, ready to toss it back to the man. She paused, the sun finally hitting his chest and illuminating a familiar polished chestplate. Emblazoned on the front, recognizable by any Arkian, was the sign of the royal guard. “You’re --- you’re from the royal guard?”

“Yes,” He straightened up, crossing his arms across his chest and raising his chin. Even from several paces away Clarke could see toned muscle underneath his long sleeves. He had dark unruly curls piled onto his head and his eyebrows sank over his eyes. Clarke felt unbelievably exposed in his gaze.

“Take it back,” Clarke insisted, still holding out the pouch. “I haven’t touched it, take your money and let me leave, please.”

He shook his head, “I don’t care about the money.”

“Please,” Clarke begged, fumbling for a lie, “I’ve got a son, I was just trying to feed him. We live alone, his father abandoned us---”

“We both know none of that is true.” He called her bluff, leaving Clarke with her mouth hanging open. She prided herself on being a brilliant liar. The guard reached into his pack, turning his head for a moment, and Clarke seized the opportunity to make a dash for the dirt wall. Her hand had just grabbed the first root when his voice made her stop in her tracks, “You go by the name Clarke?”

Clarke turned slowly from the wall, “I go by many names.”

“Well then,” he unrolled a fancy looking scroll, “‘Clarke, of Tondc, you are hereby placed under arrest by the executive orders of the Chancellor of Ark and Chief General of the Royal Guard’.”

Clarke felt like she’d just been hit in the head with a club. She was slow to process, slow to respond. “For… what?”

“That information is classified,” the guard said, the flicker in his eyes telling her that he didn’t even know. “My orders are to bring you back to the royal palace as soon as possible, out of an issue of national importance.”

_Royal palace_

_As soon as possible_

_National importance_

Clarke’s analytical brain started putting the pieces together. Her twenty-first birthday was a day away. From deep within her memory, Clarke recalled the words her parents had told her repeatedly as a child: _“Once you turn twenty-one, you are to be married to Wells Jaha and become queen.”_

Clarke breathed in, but felt no air in her lungs. Her senses dulled, the rest of the world fading to muted colors and sounds. She felt like she was drowning. _Ten years, ten years I’ve remained hidden. I’ve been careful, so careful… And when the palace finally finds me, they find me_ now? _Just days before I would be wed to Wells, before I could become queen?_

Every inch of her body told her to flee. Her legs itched to run, and her hands wanted to climb and escape the ravine, leaving the guard behind. _The guard_ , she remembered, _He doesn’t even know. He must think he’s been sent to catch a criminal, not the heir to the throne of Ark._

And yet… deep inside her mind lingered a tiny flame of curiosity. _What would it be like to be queen? What would it be like to finally accept my identity, to be open and free and loved for who I am?_ It cast a warm glow over her fear-riddled brain, and it terrified her to no end.

“I can’t,” she said, feet planted firmly on the ground and posture tall. “I won’t go.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice,” the guard replied with a scowl. “These papers bind you by Arkian law, so you have to come with me.”

“The law has never bound me before,” Clarke said defiantly, crossing her arms to mimic the guard’s own stance.

“I’ll say it again: You _don’t have a choice_.”

“No one makes decisions for me _but_ me,” she replied.

“I was told,” my guard continued, “by my instructions, that if you wouldn’t come then I was supposed to tell you this: ‘Think of your mother. She is ill, and only getting worse. Come back for her’.”

Clarke’s blood ran cold. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“How do you know that?”

“My instructions, that’s all I have. I don’t know anything else about her. I don’t even know who she is. But you do.”

Clarke’s memory conjured up Abby’s face behind her eyes: a face of warmth and love, a face that looked tortured to leave her daughter behind after her husband’s assassination. And while Tondc never received the most up-to-date news, she’d heard rumors of the queen’s growing infirmity. The queen had always been weak since her husband’s death, but lately she was forced to take long breaks from her duties, leaving the Chancellor in charge. Clarke had never taken much time or thought to dwell on her mother; thinking about her hurt too much.

“If I go with you… what will happen to my friends? Surely your _instructions_ must know about them.”

He shook his head, “I don’t know anything about them, actually. I’m not here for them, I’m here for you.”

Clarke could feel the blood pounding in her head, her senses still struggling to catch up. She wanted Jasper and Monty by her side, defending her from having to make tough choices. But she remembered how much they were drinking earlier that morning, and decided against it. She needed someone logical, someone who would use their head…

She needed Finn.

“Let me go home,” she fabricated another lie, “Let me go home and gather my things. I’ll come with you.”

“You think I’m actually going to let you out of my sight?” The guard scoffed, “Lead the way.”

Clarke nodded briefly, wondering if this could work. _Surely Finn will fight for me, he’ll help me get away from this guard_. Pulling herself together, she pushed past the guard and started to climb the slope back towards town.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy kept his pace a step or two behind Clarke, never taking his eyes off of her. He knew she noticed that, from the way her jaw was set firmly in a look of displeasure. What did he care? He was just doing his job.

When she walked, the top of her head barely reached his eyebrows in height. The sun glistened off her golden hair, making it have a strange glow about it. It balanced out the ice in her eyes. Bellamy couldn't quite figure out if they were green or blue, not that any of it really mattered. If she wasn’t so damn stubborn, he supposed he would find her pretty. Attractive, even. There was something about her: perhaps it was more than just her ruggedly-striking appearance, but a fierceness, a confidence that she carried with pride. But then she would open her mouth, or act out, and Bellamy couldn’t help but feel like Clarke of Tondc would be a handful.

She led him back into town, yet they stayed along the outskirts. Part of Bellamy worried that she’d make a run for it, so he remained ready to chase her at any minute. But Clarke surprisingly behaved herself. He could see the visible tension in her shoulders and neck, like a spring wound tight.

He decided to clear the air right then and there, “If you’re going to run then you should know you won’t get far. I’m fast.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Clarke replied. He could even hear the tension in her voice.

“Good.”

They marched in silence, their steps falling in tandem. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Blake. Cadet Blake.”

“I don’t think your first name is _Cadet_.”

“Why does it matter?” He rolled his eyes.

“If you’re going to be dragging me back to the capital, then I’d like to know your name, please.”

“Bellamy. My name is Bellamy Blake.”

“See,” Clarke said, tossing a glance over her shoulder. Her words were light, but her eyes remained cold. “That wasn’t too hard. Maybe next time you can say it like you’re not in pain.”

Clarke rounded a corner, Bellamy staying close behind her. Up ahead, the weathered stone building of a stable came into view. He remembered his notes on Clarke and a red flag sparked in his brain. _She doesn’t live here_.

He grabbed her arm beneath her shoulder, like before. She swung around to smack him in the face, and he just caught her wrist with his other hand in time. They stood face to face, his hands clutching both her arms. She was practically snarling.

“You don’t live here, do you Clarke?”

“You don’t know _anything_ about me.”

“I know that you’re lying,” Bellamy said, hoping his gaze was intense enough to match hers. She could practically light a fire with her eyes. “Trying to walk me into a trap? An ambush?”

“Don’t touch me!” She cried, bringing her knee up into his crotch, _hard_. He doubled over, releasing her out of reflex. Clarke slipped away and ran for the stable, throwing herself towards the window. Then she stopped, as if caught by some imaginary leash. Bellamy watched her go rigid, staring through the muddy glass.

 

* * *

 

She wanted to be relieved to see Finn.

He was her escape plan. She needed him to protect her, to help her fight this guard and get him off her trail. She knew Finn would back her up, just like he’d always promised he would.

But then she saw him in the stables, his familiar body filling up her view as he pressed himself against another girl. Her back arched against the wooden panel of an empty stall, and Clarke recognized her by the curves of her profile: Raven, the mechanic.

If her senses had slowed upon meeting Bellamy, Clarke’s brain came to a complete halt when she saw Finn and Raven. Her senses were far too awake, watching Finn place hot kisses on Raven’s collarbone and hearing her giggle in response. All of a sudden, Clarke felt very, very heavy, as though she were made of lead.

_“I can’t just leave Tondc. I have a job and… commitments.”_

Finn’s words rattled around Clarke’s brain, playing on repeat. Now she knew exactly who that _commitment_ was. That commitment had been out of town for a solid week when Clarke had last seen Finn. That commitment was always away whenever Finn wanted to see Clarke.

Clarke felt like she was going to be sick.

 

* * *

 

To Bellamy, the scene inside the stables was just a scene. The boy had long brown hair and wandering hands. The girl had a naturally-smiling face and a body that molded itself to fit against his. Bellamy watched it unfold as a detached spectator.

But he also watched Clarke crumble. Her stony demeanor fell away, and though nothing physically changed about her, he could feel the difference. When she turned her eyes were guarded and closed off. She looked… empty.

“Someone you know, I’m guessing?” He asked, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. It would be like kicking someone when they’re down.

“The Chancellor wants me?” Clarke said in a hollow voice. “Fine. I’ll go with you, to Station City. I’ll do it.”

“Change of heart?”

When Clarke’s eyes met his, he shivered. “Change of head.”

 

 

 

 


	5. The Cost of Freedom

 

Octavia scooted backwards, pressing her back up against the wall behind her. Hugging her knees to her chest, she tried to ignore the hoots and catcalls from the other prisoners around her. The iron bars of her cell were enough to keep them physically from her, but their lewd words still reached her ears. She let her curtain of dark hair fall in front of her face to shield the boiling look in her eyes. If they didn’t shut up sooner or later, she would lose it.

Octavia had always known she was a beautiful girl. She was of petite and slender build, with very long dark hair and blue eyes like twin sapphires. She had been receiving attention – _male_ attention – since she was barely thirteen years old. Sometimes, Octavia had been more than grateful for Bellamy’s protection, stepping in to shield his sister from prying eyes or unwanted advances. He would never hesitate to intervene when some drunk fixated on his sister, and Bellamy had a nasty right-hook that he wasn’t afraid to use.

Yet sometimes, Bellamy could be a real jerk.

When Octavia had grown to appreciate the attention, even become flattered by it, Bellamy couldn’t comprehend why. She watched him treat every guy like a threat. Even when he started working longer shifts at the palace – albeit, to better support his younger sister – he never trusted Octavia’s judgment when it came to men.

But for once, though Octavia hated to admit it, Bellamy had been right.

She cringed, thinking of Atom’s charming smiles and kind words. She remembered the curve of his hand against hers, or how his lips played with hers when they kissed, or feeling his heartbeat through her own chest on his… She pictured the tiny blue butterfly pin he had given her as a present, and how she wore that like it was nothing less than pure tangible love itself.

In retrospect, that pin was probably stolen off some oblivious peddler’s cart. And Atom… Atom was just using her to carry out another scheme. She’d fallen for him completely, and she’d fallen for his trick.

_Octavia sat on the basin of the fountain, surprised at how cold the marble felt beneath her legs. She tugged her long sleeves down her arms, hoping that the clever tailoring would be enough to cover the uneven surfaces of her forearms. The metal chains of each pocket watch were wrapped around her wrists several times, moving up towards her elbows. The chains felt like they were burning, searing her skin with the mark of a thief._

_Cobalt eyes shifting back and forth, she combed the streets for Atom. Any minute now, he’d emerge from some shady alleyway and beckon her. He wouldn’t be long, Octavia knew that. He’d just needed her to hold the watches for a few minutes, just a few minutes._

_That’s when she heard footsteps approaching fast, footsteps that were too synchronized and heavy to mean any good. She turned her head slowly, taking in the four royal guards closing in on her. Beside them, Octavia recognized the familiar long face of the watch vendor._

_“That’s her, that’s the one,” the haggard vendor pointed at her, repeating his accusation. Octavia turned her head from side to side, heart pounding in her ears, hoping desperately to see Atom’s face in the square. But he wasn’t there._

_“Search her,” came the order from the first guard, and Octavia felt rough hands drag her from her seat at the fountain’s basin. As a guard yanked at her left sleeve, Octavia knew it was over._

Octavia was jarred from her recollections by a shift in the atmosphere of the dungeons. The surrounding prisoners began to boo and hiss, rattling their iron bars like rabid animals in a cage. Pushing up from off the ground, Octavia approached the front of her cell to peer down the hallway.

The round-faced prison guard lumbered his down the hall, but this time he was led by a new companion. Octavia took in the haughty posture and beady eyes of Cage Wallace. As part of the Chancellor’s advisory team, Cage was well-known as Jaha’s greatest lackey, carrying out the Chancellor’s bidding without so much as a second thought. He was also known across Ark as a slick politician who would say or do anything to get his way. Octavia slid away from the bars, returning to lean against the back wall with folded arms. _What the hell is Cage doing down here?_

“Got this newer one,” she heard the prison guard share, “She’s been here just a few days.” He stopped in front of Octavia’s cell, and the moment Cage laid eyes on Octavia her stomach plummeted. Something about the way he looked at her, _all_ of her, left a sour taste in her mouth.

“What’s she in for?” Cage asked quietly, like he didn’t have to compete with the other hollering prisoners to be heard.

“Theft, she stole a bunch of watches or something. Petty stuff.”

“Interesting,” Cage nodded, then addressed Octavia herself. “Come here, girl.” She refused to move, instead only lifting her chin. “ _Please_ ,” Cage added.

Hesitantly, Octavia approached, yet stayed a foot or so from the front bars. She kept her arms crossed over her chest and hair in her eyes.

“What a pretty girl,” Cage said, his voice filled with more sincerity, not lust, than Octavia had been expecting. “You shouldn’t be locked up in a cell like this. It’s too cold and damp, you’ll get sick.”

“I’m strong,” Octavia responded, her voice pointed and icy.

Cage seemed impressed, “I’m sure you are. What is your name, then?”

Octavia refused to answer, instead keeping her jaw clenched shut.

The guard spoke up from beside Cage, seizing the opportunity to impress a superior. “Her name is Octavia Blake, sir.”

“Octavia,” Cage repeated, trying out the word. He turned to the guard, “Very well then. Have Miss Octavia brought upstairs to my chambers, we’ll clean her up and get her out of those dirty clothes. And please,” He paused, “Treat her like a guest, _not_ a prisoner.”

Cage brushed past the guard and returned down the hall without so much as another look at Octavia, leaving her with an awful feeling in the pit of her stomach.

 

* * *

 

When Clarke returned to camp, it was all too evident that Jasper and Monty were gone. The air was too quiet and the bedrolls and hammock were empty. Clarke also noticed that the latest jug of moonshine had been dragged away from the still, leaving her to guess that they’d gone to deliver this batch to Murphy.

Clarke’s heart ached, realizing this would be the last time she would see this familiar old camp. She wouldn’t miss the bedrolls or the hammock or the fire, or anything material from the camp at all. No, Jasper and Monty had been her real home for the past ten years. The idea that she was walking away from them… it ate at her heart like some parasite.

“So this is where you’ve been living,” She heard Bellamy speak up from behind her, almost having forgotten that he was there. His eyes drunk in the makeshift camp and all of its little details.

Clarke shrugged, “It’s not much, but it’s all we’ve got.” She busied herself with preparing a traveling pack in an old canvas sack she’d filched. “We would never stay in one place for too long, so we had to keep things simple.”

Bellamy paced over towards the still, gently rapping his knuckles on the main copper basin. “A distillery,” he said, leaning down to sniff the jug. He reared back quickly, “Moonshine.” His reaction to the dizzying odor was typical: knotted eyebrows and a scrunched nose. “So, you’re living with a bunch of illegal moonshine distillers.”

Clarke rose up sharply, eyes burning into Bellamy’s own. “Remember, no harm is to come to my friends. You promised that….” _If he really thinks he’s going to turn them in, then I swear to God I’ll---_

“I told you, I’m not here for them.” Bellamy repeated. “If the Chancellor really wants to crack down on his own liquor laws, then he’s got to send down some different guards. I’m not doing more than I’m required to.”

“Fine, then,” Clarke answered awkwardly, expecting more of a confrontation from this guard. She returned to filling up her pack, careful to grab enough rations while leaving Jasper and Monty with _something_ to eat. She’d forgotten about picking up bread as soon as she’d seen that mob around the stocks… Emptying her pockets, Clarke left her pickpocketed spoils buried with the rest of their food supply, hoping one of the boys would pawn off the goods for some food money. _Surely they’ll be okay without me, right?_

“Make sure you’ve got some good shoes,” Bellamy called out to her. He was leaning his toned frame against a thick tree trunk, looking too at-ease. “It’s going to be a long walk from here back to Station City.”

Clarke frowned, “We’re walking all the way back? Why not rent a cart or buy our way onto some caravan? It’d be so much quicker.” She raised an eyebrow, thinking of her guard’s money pouch that had gotten her caught, “Didn’t the royal guard give you some travelling money?”

“We’re not doing that,” he insisted, holding up a hand to stop her. “My instructions were to return you to the palace with as little outside interaction as possible. As in, do it ourselves. The less people around you, the better.”

She paused, seeing the reasoning behind that. Bellamy didn’t know he was traveling with the royal heir, but if anyone knew Clarke’s true identity then it was safer to travel quietly. She sealed up her canvas bag and slipped her last knife – the old one she’d stolen from Vera’s kitchen those many years ago – under her belt. “Well, these are the only shoes I’ve got, so you’ll just have to deal with it.”

“No excuses. _You’ll_ just have to keep up.”

Clarke reached for a scrap of paper and an old charcoal stump. Art supplies were expensive and hard to come by, but Finn had been generous with his presents for Clarke. She was always careful to save the supplies, trying to stretch them out to make them last. Now, after seeing Finn and Raven in the stables, she didn’t care about wasting them anymore.  She scrawled out a note while speaking, “You obviously want to make it back to Station City as soon as you can, yet you won’t let us take the quicker way there.”

“I’m following my instructions.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t.”

“Trust me, Princess, I have my reasons for wanting to make it back as soon as I can, and none of them concern you.”

Clarke froze, her blood running sluggishly like sliding ice. “ _What_ did you just call me?”

“‘Princess’, it’s just a nickname,” Bellamy frowned, confused. “Seems to suit you.”

 _A nickname_ , Clarke told herself, trying to thaw herself out of shock and fear. _Just a simple, coincidental nickname. He doesn’t know anything._ She dropped the note in the center of the hammock, where she was certain the boys would find it.

“I’m no princess.” She said, emphasizing each word. Her heart felt like it was tearing in two as she brushed past Bellamy and left the camp – her home – for good.

_I have to go. Sometimes the past catches up to you. Mine did._

_I hope I can see you both again. You know where I’ll be._

_\-- C_

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until Octavia had reached what she assumed was Cage’s chamber did the prison guard finally remove her shackles. She rubbed her red, raw wrists, grateful to be free of the metal confines. The prison guard took a step back, wrinkling his piggish nose, then opened the door behind him. “Wait here,” he instructed her, before pulling the door shut. Octavia heard it lock.

The room around her stood out in total contrast to the prison cell, but it still felt like a cell in itself. Octavia had never seen a room look so lavish and plush: rich burgundy velvet curtains over the windows, fine art adorning every wall, furniture gilded with a brilliant golden sheen. Beneath her feet lay the shaggy hide of some enormous animal – a bear, it seemed. In the center of the far wall, draped with elaborate curtains and fine sheets, stood a huge four poster bed.

_Oh hell no._

Octavia could see where this was going from a mile away, and she didn’t like it one bit. She tore to the windows, tugging aside the curtains. The marbled glass was bolted down, and no matter how hard she tried to twist the lock it wouldn’t budge. Her hands were sore when she finished, matching the ache in her wrists.

From somewhere behind her, Octavia heard movement. She spun, seeing a wooden panel pushed out from the wall, revealing a hidden door. A plain blond girl in a maidservant’s uniform entered, returning the panel back into place. It was a servant’s door; Octavia had heard about them, the discrete tunnels that allowed servants and palace staff to move more quickly around the castle.

“You must be Octavia,” the girl said, her smile wide on her face. “My name in Keenan, and I’m here to help clean you up.” Her eyes flickered over Octavia’s filthy, ragged state. “You _are_ a pretty girl, and when I’m done, you’ll look even better.”

Keenan’s optimism was unsettling. “So, what, am I supposed to get all cleaned up just so Cage can come and play with me?”

“Of course not. Sir Wallace always feels sympathetic for prisoners, especially those who don’t belong in a cell. He simply wants to return some of the dignity one a person when they’re locked up.”

Keenan spoke as though she believed those words with every ounce of her being. She turned, pushing on the same panel again and stepping through the doors. A moment later she returned first with a large brass basin, then a porcelain pitcher. She dragged the basin to a clear spot on the floor and poured warm water from the pitcher into the bin. “Come, Octavia. Time for a bath.”

Every nerve within Octavia was telling her no, that this would only lead to worse things. But she felt disgusting and cold, and the water was steaming and Keenan had added something with lavender to the bath, so Octavia couldn’t say no. She began to loosen the stays on the back of her bodice, and Keenan came over to silently help. When Octavia finally removed her grimy undershift, she folded her arms across her chest, self-conscious in her nakedness. The maid didn’t seem to register any difference, leading Octavia into the basin and proceeding to sponge the dirt off her skin. The air around Octavia was cold and turned her skin to goose-pimples, but the water was too soothing and gentle for her to really care.

After the bath, Octavia wrapped herself in a towel of some fabric softer than anything she’d ever felt before. Noticing the mixed hues of brown that the water had become, she realized that perhaps a bath wasn’t a bad idea. Several days in the prison cell had left her filthy.

“Sir Wallace loves the color red, if you haven’t noticed,” Keenan said, pulling folds of luxurious fabric from deep within a drawer. As she unfolded them, Octavia recognized the pieces of an elaborate gown, beyond anything she’d ever worn before. She suddenly longed for her typical blue bodice and gray skirt, intimidated by the garment before her.

Octavia found herself being laced, stuffed, and prodded into petticoats and corsets, layers upon layers that she was certain Cage would have her shed as soon as he was left alone with her. When Keenan was done dressing Octavia, she sat the prisoner down in front of a mirror to dry and style her hair. Octavia hardly recognized herself: The brocade bodice of the gown pushed her chest too far upwards and waist in too tight, giving her an unbelievable figure. Blood-colored taffeta rolled off her hips like water, pooling around her feet. She blushed at the sight of herself, hating how the extra color in her cheeks only further complimented the dress. _Bell would kill me if he ever saw me wearing this_.

“There,” Keenan said, finished pinning the last piece of Octavia’s hair where she wanted it. Her dark tresses were pulled away from her face, leaving her eyes brilliantly exposed. “You look positively ravishing, Octavia.”

“Thank you,” Octavia said, slowly and hesitantly. She reached up to rub her fingers over the rubies dripping from her ears. “I feel --- _nothing_ like myself.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” Keenan said, brushing the comment away. Rising to return to the servant’s door, Keenan turned back over her shoulder and whispered clandestinely, “Cage will be _delighted_ to have you.”

 

* * *

 

“Did you see the way she was staring at me?”

“Who? Which one?”

“The brunette, with the braid.”

“Staring at _you_? She was probably staring _past_ you, at some better looking guy behind you.”

“I don’t think so. She was definitely interested in me.”

“Yeah, until she got up and left.”

“Whatever.”

Monty threw an elbow into Jasper’s side, finally getting him to shut up about some random girl at City of Light. He hopped over a fallen tree branch, navigating the familiar trail back to their hidden camp. Monty wondered when Clarke was going to get back from town. They’d almost dropped in at the stables on their way back from the tavern, but then decided against it. Neither boy wanted to think about what Clarke was probably doing in her spare time with Finn.

“She back yet?” Monty asked, as the camp came into view.

“The brunette?”

“No, you dolt, Clarke.” Monty ducked under a low-hanging branch and crossed into camp. Nothing really looked out of the ordinary, there was just no Clarke around.

“Of course she’s not back yet,” Jasper said, dropping onto the log by the firepit to start up a new flame. He slipped off his boots and grabbed a worn-down flintstone. “It’s Clarke, she’s always working or worrying about something. Give her some time to relax.”

“I know,” Monty said, crossing over to the hammock to take a seat. He paused, seeing the scrap of drawing paper laid on top of the fabric. Picking it up, his eyes quickly read the note. “Clarke’s gone.”

“Yeah, genius, I noticed.”

“No, I mean, _really_ gone.”

“What did you say?” Jasper spotted the note in Monty’s hand, standing to go over and read it too.

“Look,” Monty pointed, “ _Sometimes the past catches up to you. Mine did_. You don’t think… did the palace find her?”

“No way,” Jasper breathed, his face growing pale. “After all these years, they come and find her now?”

“Her birthday is tomorrow.”

“I remembered, I bought her a pair of gloves.”

“Her _twenty-first_ birthday.”

Jasper stopped, catching on. “They’ve brought her back to be married off, to become queen.”

Monty sat down on the ground, his back resting against a trunk. “Clarke would’ve never just left on her own. She always said she wanted to forget that life.”

“No, they probably sent someone to bring her back. A team of guards, a carriage, _something_.”

“What if she didn’t want to go? What if they forced her to?”

“You think they took her?”

Monty nodded, “They could’ve. What if she’s actually in danger?”

Jasper thrust his hands onto his hips, “Princess or no princess, I’m not letting them take our Clarke away from us. Not without a fight.”

“Me neither.”

An unfamiliar sound stole their attention. From far off in the forest, they heard someone shouting Clarke’s name repeatedly. Through the trees, they spotted the trim stature and long hair of Finn, Clarke’s stable boy.

“Idiot,” Jasper grumbled, “He’s looking in all the wrong places.”

Finn shouted “Clarke!” again, so Jasper took off into the woods after him, Monty hurrying along behind.

“Shut up,” Jasper said when he finally reached the stable boy, “Do you want to tell the whole world that we’re out here? Hell, there’s a _reason_ you can’t find Clarke’s camp, and we’d like to keep it that way.”

“Jasper,” Finn recognized him, probably having heard plenty about him from Clarke. “Do you know where she is? Clarke? She’d promised to drop by earlier, but she never did. I wasn’t sure what happened.”

“Clarke’s gone,” Monty said bluntly. “She left.”

Finn’s face fell, “ _Left_? What do you mean? This is Clarke, she’d never just… leave.”

“Well, she did,” said Jasper. “Either that or she didn’t go willingly. We don’t know, the note she left didn’t say.”

“You think she was kidnapped?” Finn asked, eyes growing panicked. “Why would someone take Clarke?”

Jasper almost answered with the obvious, then realized Finn didn’t know who Clarke really was. “I don’t know. We’re in the dark, just like you are.”

Finn’s face became clouded, eyes lost in memory. “This is my fault,” he spoke slowly. “Clarke… she always said she wanted to get out of Tondc.”

Monty raised an eyebrow, “Actually, I’m pretty sure this _isn’t_ your fault.”

“No, Clarke told me. She said she wanted to travel, see the world. She always wanted to go to the sea…” His face lit up, “That’s where she is. She went east, towards the sea. I told her I couldn’t go, but she probably left anyways.”

Jasper shared a look with Monty, both absolutely certain that Clarke was _not_ going to the sea. But they couldn’t share their certainty about her whereabouts without revealing Clarke’s royal heritage to Finn.

“This is my fault, I… I have to find her.” Finn made up his mind. “I have to go after her, she could get hurt, or taken advantage of.”

“Clarke’s a tough girl---” Jasper began.

“Listen to me,” Finn said, grabbing Jasper’s shoulders and speaking to him passionately. “Did Clarke say _anything_ about the sea? Anything at all? I – I have to be right, I have to find her. I don’t know what I’d do without her. I’m crazy about Clarke, and if I ever lost her…” Finn’s voice faded to a weak sound.

He was hopeless. Jasper could see the frenzy and fear in Finn’s eyes, and that poor stable boy was going to lose it if Jasper told him his only lead was completely ridiculous. Jasper spoke slowly, working a lie, “Yeah, I think she mentioned visiting the sea once, now that I think about it.” He ignored Monty’s jaw dropping open, instead focusing on hope crossing Finn’s face.

“So that’s it. I’ll go find her,” Finn turned around resolutely, a mission in mind. “I’ll go---” He stopped, abrupt and surprised. Standing just ten feet from Finn was another girl that Jasper didn’t quite recognize at first. She was tan and muscular, dark hair pulled up and tied out of her face. Her bodice was broken-in leather and her skirt was made of some course, practical material. She looked tough as nails. It took Jasper a moment to recall her name: Raven, the blacksmith.

“There you have it,” she spoke emotionlessly, arms hanging lifelessly at her sides.

“Raven,” Finn said, seemingly shocked to see her here. It didn’t take long for Jasper to read the context between them: Raven mustn’t have known about Clarke, and obviously believed she was Finn’s one and only.

“Don’t start, Finn.”

“Raven, listen to me---”

“‘ _I’m crazy about Clarke… I don’t know what I’d do without her’…_ Don’t mock me Finn!” Raven’s voice rose as she threw her arms up in the air. “I heard it all.”

“You followed me,” Finn said, incredulous.

“I’d finished my work early, so I wanted to surprise you. I saw you leaving on the edge of town, and I was curious. String me up for being curious!” She shook her head, a disgusted look on her face. “Now I see I had good reason to be curious.”

“I’m sorry, Raven,” Finn pleaded, “I--- I just need time to work this out. I never expected Clarke, I never saw her coming. I need time.”

“You think I’m an idiot? You think I’d _ever_ believe you are going to break it off with Clarke? Not after those things you just said.”

“I didn’t---”

“Don’t you dare tell me you didn’t mean it,” Raven got in his face, waving a finger at him. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I didn’t know you would hear that.”

“But you said it anyways, Finn. Whether it was to my face or behind my back or not around me at all, you said it anyways.”

Jasper and Monty both felt incredibly awkward.

“You know what?” Raven said, bringing her voice back down, “You should go. Go, find your little Clarke and go live out your ‘happily ever after’ sham. See if I give half a _damn_ about you.”

“You love me, Raven! You told me you love me!”

“ _Leave_!” She yelled, punching him in the chest. Finn went reeling backwards, the wind knocked unexpectedly out of him.

“Fine,” he said, gathering himself and running away, towards the edge of the forest. Once he was out of earshot, Raven slumped to her knees, eyes red and nose running.

“Hey,” Jasper crossed uncomfortably, not knowing what to do. He decided to just pat Raven’s shoulder, hoping that it was somewhat of a comforting gesture. Monty seemed skeptical about it. “It’ll be… okay.” He said it like it was a question.

Raven rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “You know what’s really the kicker here?”

“What?”

“I quit my job,” Raven said, laughing through a sob. “I walked out. Ridley’s always been a dick, so I told him I was done.” She shook her head, finding humor in it. “Finn said we’d get away, the two of us. As soon as he could, we’d leave. I thought --- I thought if I left my job I could finally get Finn moving. I was going to surprise him.”

“That’s too bad,” Jasper spoke empty words. He didn’t know what to say.

Raven pulled herself together, “You know what? Screw it. Screw Finn. I’m getting out of this town with or without him. Without him, it seems. I’m sick of Tondc. I’ve got enough saved up to buy myself a spot on a caravan, I think.”

“Where are you going to go?” Monty asked.

“Where does anyone go to forget themselves and start over? Station City.”

 

* * *

 

Not a minute after the servant’s door slid shut did the front door unlock. Octavia watched as Cage slipped into the room. His tall figure and sickly smile seemed to take up too much of the room, like a loud painting that was too big for a small wall. This was – by no one’s standards – a small space to fill, but Cage’s presence soaked it up like a sponge.

“My, Octavia, you look splendid. Keenan really did a good number on you, didn’t she?”

“I suppose so,” Octavia said cautiously. She watched Cage pace across the room, keeping her distance from him. Her stomach sank to her feet when she saw he now stood directly between her and the servant’s door. Whether it was intentional or not, she couldn’t tell.

“You look… uncomfortable. Is something wrong?”

“How am I supposed to be comfortable?” Octavia hissed. “You drag me out of my prison cell, dress me up like a doll, and lock me in your bedchamber with you. Do you think I’m a fool? That I don’t see where this is going?”

“Octavia,” Cage purred, coming closer to her, “You’ve misunderstood me. I haven’t tried to make you anything _but_ comfortable. And no, I don’t take you for a fool. But you should know,” Octavia backed up, feeling trapped by the desk behind her, “That you will be _willing_ , when it happens. I’m an honorable gentleman.”

The sour taste returned to Octavia’s mouth, but she almost laughed. _Does Cage really think he’s going to seduce me?_ “You are as far from an honorable gentleman as I’ve ever seen, picking out your spoils from the dungeons, dressing them up and making them believe they are worth something.”

“You are worth everything to me,” he said lasciviously, his face just inches from hers. Octavia’s fingers scrambled behind her, reaching for anything useful. When Cage lunged forward, his lips smashing against hers, she leaned backwards and finally touched cold metal. She grabbed the stem of a heavy candelabrum, swung it forward and bashed Cage over the head with it. He slumped to his knees groggily. Not taking any chances, Octavia swung again, catching his temple and sending him tumbling down like a sack of rocks.

She prodded him with the toe of her fancy dress shoe, seeing no movement from his crumpled form. He was still breathing, though, so Octavia moved quickly. The main door had locked after Cage, so she hurried to push open the servant’s door. She stepped out into the dimly-lit hallway, a wave of dank air rushing towards her. Sliding the door back into place, she took off at a run – or as much of a run as she could manage with her billowing skirts and heels. At the end of the hallway, she descended a spiral staircase two steps at a time. All she knew was that she needed to get to ground level. She needed to reach the bottom.

Octavia went deeper and deeper, losing track of the number of steps she flew over. Luckily, she didn’t cross paths with any other palace staff as she reached the absolute bottom of the steps. Seeing a fork in the tunnel, she headed left and began to run again.

“Hey!” A voice called out from behind her, and she saw the silhouette of a guard approaching, “You shouldn’t be down here.”

Octavia wasted no time in dashing away, breaking in to a full sprint. She followed the tunnels blindly, turning at forks without a second thought. Behind her, she could hear more footsteps gathering to follow her. When she finally reached a dead end, panicked welled up in her stomach. There was no way in hell she’d go back to Cage, not after what she did to him. Instead, her eyes fell upon a grate in the tunnel floor. From the stench of it, she knew it must lead deep into the sewers beneath the city. Octavia saw no other option . Dropping to her knees, she tugged at the grate with all of her weight until the metal bars snapped off. She gathered up skirts, swung her legs into the hole, and slipped through.

For a moment, she fell through open air, before being caught by some chute that slid her further down. Octavia moved through total darkness, the thick odor of the sewers making her gag with each breath. Finally she reached the bottom, skidding out onto a cold stone floor. She rose, using some faint distant light to try and see. To her left, she could hear the rushing of liquid sewage moving in an awful river. She could stand on a stone walkway along the side, and figured if she walked she could follow this river. Up ahead, she could make out the faintest trace of a glow, a light from far away.

“This sucks,” she told herself bitterly, immediately regretting the decision to open her mouth to the thick sewer air. It was disgustingly hot in the tunnel too, and Octavia felt droplets of sweat run down her forehead and collarbone. She marched alongside the river of filth, watching the light grow slightly stronger until she could make out shapes in its yellow glow. There were soon enough light to see the stone in front of her, or each rat as it scrambled over her toes. Octavia was thankful she wasn’t afraid of the dark, but she couldn’t be more grateful to see the light grow in intensity.

After what seemed like years of walking, Octavia spotted its source. The light came from a rough-hewn hole in the tunnel’s stone ceiling, casting a warm glow on the reeking hell below. A rusted metal ladder ran from the ground into the hole, and Octavia hurried to clamber up it. After cursing her ridiculous skirts four times before finally reaching the top, Octavia rose up through the hole.

Her eyes widened, barely believing what she saw. She would have never expected this.

 

           

 

 


	6. Sunlight and Firelight

The first thing Octavia noticed as she reached the top of the ladder was a change in the air. No, it wasn’t nearly as sticky and foul-smelling as before, deep in the sewers. The air was still considerably warm, but it was dryer and slightly metallic.

Then came the sounds. Octavia left behind the droning rush of the sewage river for diverse chatter, machinery sounds, and some distant instrument playing a song. There were signs of life, even deep underground.

But what Octavia _saw_ was most impressive. She stood at the bottom of some large cavern, with a ceiling that hung more than fifty feet overhead and reached out into the darkness. There were buildings erected all around Octavia, made of wood and metal and scraps of anything that could be salvaged. They were ramshackle in material, but strong, well-built structures. Some were homes, Octavia noticed, and others looked like odd shops – a cobbler, a baker, a blacksmith, and others. Further in the distance Octavia saw smaller caves carved into the stone walls of the main cavern. All around, the space hummed with the energy of people: people walking, talking, working, laughing, and simply going about their day. As though they weren’t several stories underground.

Octavia was rendered speechless.

She climbed off the top of the ladder, dropping into a crouch on the cool stone floor. Placing her palm on the ground, she could feel the vibrations of this strange city through her fingertips. Her heart was racing, and she wasn’t sure if she should be exhilarated or absolutely terrified.

That’s when she saw another girl staring at her.

Octavia looked up, not intimidated by eye contact. This girl stood with sheepish posture, a head of curly dark hair and shy brown eyes. Her dress was a lilac color and made of many patches all dyed to look congruent. As the daughter of a seamstress – and practically a seamstress herself – Octavia was impressed by the craft of the dress.

“Who are you?” The girl asked, keeping her distance carefully. “Where did you come from?”

Octavia stood up, “I came from above, from the palace.”

The girl looked frightened, turning over her shoulder to call for help.

“No!” Octavia stopped her, stepping forwards. “Please, I won’t hurt you. I came from the palace, but I’m not _from_ the palace. I don’t work there or anything. And I have no intention of ever going back there again.”

“How did you find us?”

“I was running away,” Octavia explained, “And I ended up in the sewers. I walked around forever until I found this light, coming from here. It was an accident, really.”

The girl took in Octavia’s lavish outfit, even though the trip through the sewers had left it in terrible condition. Her eyes stopped and widened at Octavia’s wrist. “Your arm,” she pointed.

Octavia looked down, seeing a dripping red gash running down her forearm. She realized she must’ve cut it when she fell into the sewers, but the adrenaline was enough to keep the pain dulled. Now, simply standing here, she felt the ache return. “I didn’t even notice that.”

“We should get you fixed up,” the girl said, taking a step towards Octavia as her voice grew urgent. “Did anyone follow you down here? You have to tell me if they did.”

“No,” Octavia shook her head, “They stopped chasing me before I entered the sewers. I’m alone.”

“Good,” the girl said, extending a hand. “My name’s Maya.”

“I’m Octavia. Tell me, what is this place?”

“This?” Maya looked around, as impressed by the city as Octavia was. “This is what we like to call The Underworld.”

“The Underworld,” Octavia repeated, “So, you’re telling me that all this time there’s been an underground village _beneath_ Station City?”

“Exactly. It was formed many decades ago, but it’s really taken off since the king’s death. With the Chancellor throwing anyone with a smear on their criminal record in prison, many people have been fleeing underground. Throw in his overwhelming economic overhauls and it’s growing too hard for the working class to make an honest living anymore. Jaha caters to the rich and wealthy, leaving us,” she motioned to the city around them, “To fend for ourselves. This is how we do it.”

“This is incredible. Does Jaha or the palace know this is here?”

“There have been rumors about underground communities for years, but no one from the palace has actually found us yet. We’d like to keep it that way.” Maya gave a sad sort of smile, then shook it off. “I’d love to show you around here, but first we need to address that gash of yours.”

Maya began moving, leaving Octavia to follow along, “Where are you taking me?”

“To the closest thing to a doctor that we’ve got down here,” Maya said, “To Lincoln.

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke knew the woods. She’d practically grown up in them, ever since she met Jasper and Monty. Years of experience taught her how to walk through thick underbrush, what sounds to listen for, where to step to stay silent, and how to read the forest. It came naturally to her, as she adjusted her footsteps and kept her peripheral vision wide and alert.

She could also tell that Bellamy _didn’t_ know the woods. He took quick, motivated steps, but his footfalls were too loud and heavy. Instead of watching the world from the corner of his eye he swung his head too much. His back was tall and stiff, and in the past few hours of walking he hadn’t seemed to relax in the slightest. He looked ready to pounce at any moment.

Clarke picked up her pace, falling in step on Bellamy’s left side. She got a good look at him, watching him from the corner of her eyes. For a brief second, Clarke stopped looking at Bellamy like he was a threat or a captor, but as an artist would study a muse. She took in the gentler curves of his face in profile, curves where she expected there to be angles. His skin was tanned and freckled at the same time, like he couldn’t decide which to be. He held his lips tightly together and eyebrows low, and it took him a while to realize that Clarke was staring at him. She looked away as soon as he noticed her.

“If you’ve got something to say, Princess,” he said in a deep voice, the nickname making Clarke cringe, “You might as well come out and say it.”

“You grew up in the city, didn’t you?” Clarke asked.

“Station City. Is it really that obvious?”

“I can see it. You’re too loud in the forest, and you rely on sight more than you should. If you want to stay on your guard in the forest, use your ears more than your eyes.”

“Well don’t you just know everything,” he said, sarcasm dripping.

“I’m good at reading people.” Clarke shrugged off his comment. “Like I can tell that you’ve got something motivating you, something personal that keeps you going. You want to get back home as soon as possible. Is it a person?”

Bellamy became even more closed off than before. His lips pressed together in a thin line before answering, “Yes.”

“Someone you obviously care about a lot?”

“Yes,” he repeated. There was something fierce and protective in his voice, leading Clarke to believe that it had to be a girl.

“A girlfriend? Wife?”

“Sister,” Bellamy responded gruffly. “Now, if you’re done interrogating me---”

“Interrogating you?” Clarke raised an eyebrow, “I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to ask questions. Where does it say _that_ in your precious instructions?”

He sighed, “I’m trying to get you back to the palace as soon as possible, so I can get on with the rest of my life. I never signed up to play babysitter to a snobby pickpocket. I never wanted to waste my time doing this. So forgive me if I’m not all sunshine and smalltalk.”

“I never asked for any of this either!” Clarke replied, her voice louder than she’d meant it to be. Even though Bellamy’s words had irritated her, she wasn’t thinking about them: She was thinking about her upcoming wedding, and future as a queen. Clarke would’ve been perfectly happy living in the woods for the rest of her life with Jasper and Monty… Or so she thought, before remembering Finn and how he’d played her, or how harsh the winter nights could be when you’re sleeping outdoors, or how they were always on the run from officials for managing an illegal distillery. Clarke felt guilt in the pit of her stomach for leaving her best friends behind, and she swore that as soon as she reached the palace she’d send for Jasper and Monty to join her. They could get a better life at the palace, as her royal advisors or something. _I’ll think of something._

Then her mind drifted to the current queen, and Clarke’s heart clenched. The mere thought of seeing her mother again was enough to send her marching towards Station City, but the fact that the queen had been wrought by illness for years…

“Do you have any family?” The question jolted Clarke out of her own mind, looking over to see her guard watching her curiously. Something about Bellamy’s intense gaze on her face made Clarke want to blush, and her eyes rushed away.

“Monty and Jasper were practically family to me,” she spoke softly, before remembering that Bellamy didn’t know who they were.

“Your camp friends, I’m guessing? The moonshine brewers?”

Clarke nodded, eyes falling to the ground. _Here comes the guilt again._

“I mean _real_ family, like blood related. Anyone?”

A small part of Clarke took offense at the way Bellamy brushed off Monty and Jasper, like they didn’t matter because they weren’t actually related to her. “My dad is dead,” she said bluntly, not wanting to reveal too much about her identity. “And my mom… well, you have your instructions. She’s sick.”

For a moment, Clarke almost thought she saw sympathy cross Bellamy’s stony face. But it couldn’t have been, probably a trick of the light or Clarke’s own mind playing games with her.

“All I have left is a sister.” When he spoke, Clarke could hear some raw emotion layered in his voice. “Her name is Octavia. She’s the reason I want to get back home.” His eyes grew dark again, some memory making him angry. “She landed her ass in prison, _again_. If I bring you home before Unity Day, then she goes free. If not, then… I lose her.”

Clarke slowed, not expecting that kind of response from Bellamy. She’d wondered why a single guard had been sent to fetch the lost royal heir from the other side of the country. Now she knew.

Bellamy shook his head, returning back to his stony façade. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind Princess, pick up the pace? We’re wasting time.”

 

* * *

 

Kane knocked on the heavy wooden door, three short knocks that rang out sharply. Technically, the attendant nurse in the foyer had already told him he could go in. But he waited for permission anyways, out of politeness and respect. When he heard a faint “Come in”, he pushed the door open.

The queen’s quarters were some of the finest in the palace, and much of that was due to their location in the sunniest part of the castle. There were three large windows, letting the golden sunlight stream through. Abby’s good taste was evident in the furnishings: fresh and luxurious in shades of green, giving the room a soft, almost outdoorsy feel. The queen’s waning frame was nearly lost among the thick bedsheets and mountain of pillows atop her mattress, and she sat up when she saw Kane enter.

“Marcus,” she said with a grin, rising to sit on the side of the bed. He hurried over to help her stand up, but she waved him away. “I can do it by myself, thank you.” Her form quivered as she stood up, but she was ultimately successful. “It’s nice of you to visit me.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he said reverently, a special light in his eyes. His relationship with Abby had been complicated to say the least, but he held her in the highest respect and recently - _finally_ \- considered her a friend. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t getting too bored, locked away up here.”

“I do what I can,” Abby said, something heavy in her voice. Kane knew how much it pained her to be out of her post, especially due to an infirmity that the doctors couldn’t place. Just a week ago Abby had been sitting in on a meeting with the Council when she’d had a dizzy spell and fainted. It was embarrassing, and Kane knew she hated it. “I’d really like to go outside, but… the doctors aren’t quite sure if that’s a good idea right now.”

“I’m sure you’ll be up for it soon, Abby. In the meantime, I’ve got news for you, and I think you’ll want to hear it.”

“What is it?”

Kane understood that there were a lot of uncertainties surrounding Blake’s special mission, but he felt like he should share it with Abby anyways. Anything to give that woman hope. “I think we’ve found her, Abby.”

“Who?” She asked, skeptical.

“Your daughter. I think we’ve found Clarissa.”

The remaining color drained from Abby’s face. She crossed over to the window, gripping the frame for support. Her knuckles were white and clenched. “Marcus, it’s not fair to go and give me false hope like that. My daughter’s been dead for ten years. I’ve told myself that – I’ve _had_ to tell myself that – to keep me going. I’ve needed that closure, not the conspiracy theories about missing remains and the bombing attack.”

“I know, Abby. I know your pain. Remember I lost _my_ mother in that attack,” Kane said, softly but insistently. “But this isn’t false hope. We’ve found a girl, she’s just outside the village of Tondc. I’ve sent one of my finest cadets to bring her back. Abby, your daughter is _coming home_.”

Abby shook her head, “But how can you be sure that’s her?”

“Thelonious sent scouts. He’s never stopped looking for your daughter. She looks just like you, Abby, exactly how you’d expect her to look. She has the right hair and eyes, and the birthmark over her lip. She fits the description perfectly.”

Abby still wouldn’t let herself believe. “That could be anyone, any girl…”

“She goes by the name of ‘Clarke’”.

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. “What?”

“She doesn’t go by Clarissa, of course. She responds to the name ‘Clarke’. I know what that nickname means to you.” His eyes were gentle, and he leaned against the window across from her, palm on the warmed glass.

When Abby spoke, her voice was distant and mind lost in a memory. “Jake came up with that nickname. That’s what he used to call her, ‘My little Clarke’…” Her eyes met Kane’s. “Marcus, is this true? Is she really coming home?”

He nodded, “Yes. She’ll be twenty-one by the time she reaches the palace. According to the Chancellor, and per her betrothal, she’ll proceed to marry Wells Jaha and become queen by the end of the year.”

But Abby had stopped listening after “yes”. Kane saw something new in her eyes, something that breathed a fresh life into her ailing body. When the sunlight fell on her face, she was practically glowing from within. “My baby is coming home.” She whispered those words as though saying them too loudly would keep them from coming true. Tears rimmed the bottom of her eyes and she flung her arms around Kane. “My baby is coming home!”

He stood awkwardly for a minute, surprised by the sudden contact from the typically reserved queen. But her thin arms held tight around his shoulders and her head fell beside his neck, so he slipped his own arms loosely around her waist in a chaste hug. He could feel her tears dampen his shirt and heard her whispering, repeating:

“My Clarke is coming home.”

 

* * *

 

When Octavia entered the shadowy shelter that was Lincoln’s, she walked alone. Maya had led her most of the way, only to be summoned by a call from a nearby doorway. She’d hastily told Octavia that the man calling her was her father, and that she’d be back by the time Lincoln was finished with Octavia’s arm. Maya scampered away before Octavia could ask any questions.

Octavia walked slowly, aware of how loud her footsteps sounded on the stone floor in the silence. She was still wearing the ridiculous slippers from Keenan, and made a mental note to ask Maya for a replacement pair when she returned. Her eyes took in the strange structure around her. Half of it was built into the natural rock wall of the cavern, the rest fashioned out of worn wood. Thick animal furs hung from the walls and makeshift shelves held dozens of glass bottles and tiny boxes. A man crouched by a small fire deeper in the shelter, looking up at Octavia’s approach. Being the only figure in the room, she assumed he was Lincoln.

“You must be Lincoln. I was told you were a doctor?”

He rose up, standing to his full height. His build was impressive, with broad shoulders shrouded by a coarse fur-edged coat. Even in the dim firelight she could see the deep brown of his skin, and his head was shaved. His eyes watched her with scrutiny.

“Of sorts,” he answered, his voice higher and softer than she’d expected.

Octavia hesitated, then moved forward. She turned her arm outwards towards him, letting him see the red tear on her arm. The bleeding was slow but persistent. “A girl named Maya said you could help me.”

He nodded, gathering some supplies from the shelves near the fire. “Come,” he beckoned, and Octavia settled down on a small stool. She gathered up her voluminous skirts, cursing her stupid dress for the thousandth time and vowing to slice off her petticoats at the first opportunity. The last thing she’d need would be her skirts going up in flames in Lincoln’s fire.

He grabbed her wrist, pressing two gentle fingers on the skin alongside the gash. Octavia winced when he moved closer towards the wound, but she trusted Lincoln’s touch. There was a calming presence surrounding him that put her at ease. “Thank you for helping me,” she said.

“Don’t thank me until I fix your arm,” he answered, uncapping a cloudy glass bottle. He poured the contents onto a rag and dabbed it along the cut. Whatever the liquid was – some sort of crude disinfectant – it made Octavia’s arm burn. She bit her lip.

“My name is Octavia,” she introduced herself, feeling like she needed to keep talking to distract herself from the burning. “I’m new around here.”

“I can tell. Your attire screams of the palace.”

“I ran away,” Octavia explained, the burning in her arm fading into a throbbing ache now as Lincoln continued to dab at the cut. “I was a prisoner, but I managed to break free and make a run for the sewers. Somehow I ended up here.”

“You’re one of the lucky ones then. Hold this to your arm,” he instructed her to keep the rag pressed against her wound. Meanwhile, he went about collecting various herbs and ingredients. “Many try to find a way into The Underworld, but are never successful. We’re very careful.”

 _Maybe not careful enough_ , Octavia thought, remembering the glowing light in the sewers and the ladder leading directly into the cavern. She found herself watching Lincoln, as he grinded the ingredients with a stone mortar and pestle. He added a few drops of some green liquid, and the mixture congealed into a strange-smelling poultice. There was something about this man that sparked curiosity within Octavia. His body was muscled and hardened, with the aura of a strong warrior. Yet his hands, calloused as they were, were tender and careful in their movements.

“Where are you from?” Octavia asked, keeping her voice casual. She watched Lincoln pause, contemplate answering, then continue to grind the mixture in silence. “You live on the edge of this town, you’re very quiet, and something about you just seems… different. Not in a bad way, or anything. It just looks like you keep to the outskirts for a reason. Like… you’re not from around here, and don’t necessarily feel comfortable yet.”

He let out a heavy sigh, “You’re observant.” He used three fingers to scoop out the mixture and spread it over her wound. The smell was pungent and sickly, but it soothed the throb of the cut. “I originally came from Triku. My family moved to Ark for the chance at a better life.” His heavy silence told Octavia that he was the only one of his family left.

Working without another word, Lincoln began winding a clean bandage around Octavia’s forearm. Her nerves sparked each time his fingertips brushed her skin, leaving behind something that felt almost magnetic. It was odd and unnerving and exhilarating. Her heart quickened pace when Lincoln’s dark eyes locked onto hers.

“Your arm should be fine now. The poultice will keep away any infection. Wear this dressing for another full day, then wash it off with water and cover it with a clean bandage.” He was very professional in his words, but Octavia was just fascinated with his voice.

“Thank you,” she said again, rising slowly from her seat. She looked down at her hands shyly. “What do I owe you?”

Lincoln’s brows furrowed. “You’re new, you don’t owe me anything.”

“I should pay you somehow,” she insisted, then remembered the jewels on her ears. She unclasped the ruby earrings, “Here. These should be worth a lot. Is there some place you can pawn them off?”

Lincoln nodded, then grabbed the earrings.

“Octavia?” A third voice echoed in the cave structure, alerting Octavia of Maya’s arrival. She turned, seeing the girl framed just outside the door. “Oh, your arm’s already set. That’s great.”

“Yeah,” Octavia replied halfheartedly, turning back to Lincoln. He’d straightened up to standing, his frame blocking the fire that bathed the cave in amber light. Octavia couldn’t help but want to know more about this person before her, questions running through her brain. Something was pulling her towards Lincoln.

“Thank you, Lincoln,” she said, placing a hesitant palm on his chest. She could feel the movement of his breathing underneath her fingers, and she wanted to edge closer. But she decided against it and pulled away.

“Be careful,” he answered, his voice quiet, “Octavia.”

She nodded, then strode out to meet Maya at the entrance, her heart racing like she’d just ran a mile.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy could see the sun hanging low among the trees, ready to set behind the horizon. Already, the forest had grown darker, the shadows becoming elongated and more ominous in shape. He stole a glimpse at Clarke, seeing her look completely at ease in the woods, as though there was absolutely nothing to fear. Bellamy, on the other hand, regarded the forest as a strange and unfamiliar place.

“Water,” Clarke pointed at a small trickling stream to their left. It gathered in a slightly larger pool, maybe four feet in width and silver in the fading light. Clarke knelt by the water, running her hands through it briefly before filling up her leather waterskin. Bellamy crouched beside her, refilling his own canteen and taking a sip. The water was cool and fresh.

“We should stop for the night,” he said, “It’s getting late. We’ll camp out here, then keep moving in the morning.”

“That works for me,” Clarke said, tugging her pack off her shoulder and settling down. She started gathering dry branches from around the pond.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to build a fire, if that’s alright with you,” she added, sarcastically.

“And, what, alert the entire world to where we are? They’ll see the fire too easily.”

“Bellamy, we’re in the middle of the woods. If anyone is looking for us, I’m sure they would’ve found us by now. Besides, it’s going to get cold in the middle of the night. And I’d like a fire, at the very least.”

He gave a gruff sigh, “Fine, have it your way, Princess.”

Clarke shot him an irritated look, “Why do you feel the need to call me that?”

He shrugged. Something – either her surprisingly pretty looks, or her _I-know-everything_ attitude – screamed “princess” to his brain. “It seems to be fitting. Appropriate, even.”

“You don’t even know,” she growled under her breath, and ignored her groaning. Instead, he busied himself with unpacking his dinner for the evening: some military biscuits and a few pieces of hardtack jerky. He bit into the preserved meat, immediately remembering why he never missed the overly-salty taste or the tree bark consistency.

Clarke’s pile of firewood had built up nicely, and she dropped beside it, rummaging through her own pack. “Thanks for all your help, _Cadet_ ,” she spat.

“You’re the expert,” he answered, not caring about some grumpy thief that he was forced to travel with. Though, for all her annoying qualities, Clarke _did_ know how to make a good fire. Soon, the forest was bathed in the warm glow of open flames, which she tended to carefully.

His eyes lazily drifted over to Clarke again, as they had a tricky tendency of doing so. She sat with her knees up against her chest, nibbling on her own packed dinner. Raising an eyebrow at him, she shifted in her seat and spoke. “Tell me more about your sister, Octavia. What’s she like?”

Bellamy leaned back against a fallen log, crossing his arms and stretching out his tired legs. “Why should I?”

“Hell, Bellamy, it’s not a _bad_ thing to open yourself up every once in a while. Talking is normal.”

“But you’re a complete stranger to me, why waste my time?”

If Clarke took offense at that, she hid it well. “We’re both stuck out here in the woods together, so you might as well talk. And you’re right: I’m a stranger. You’ll probably never see me again once we get to Station City. So you’re safe with me. No follow-through.”

He pursed his lips together; if there was one thing Clarke had become very quickly good at, it was pushing his buttons exactly where they could be pushed. It was impossible to fight her. “Fine, but you have to answer my questions too. That’s only fair.”

“Alright,” she said, opening up a different waterskin and taking a swig. Bellamy could smell the distinctive moonshine almost immediately. Clarke held out the skin, offering some to him. “To take the edge off.”

Bellamy thought of the ache in his joints and the exhaustion behind his eyes, so he grabbed the skin and drank a sip. The drink lit his throat on fire but he liked the way it burned. “First question: Why shack up with a bunch of moonshine brewers?”

“I ran away from home when I was little,” Clarke spoke slowly, as if worrying that she was going to say the wrong words. “Monty and Jasper were the first kids I met, and they accepted me. It took them a while to warm up to me, but we’ve been inseparable for years. I guess… up until now.” He watched a shadow fall over her expression, becoming drawn in and closed off. It passed quickly, and she shook it away. “My turn. Tell me about your sister.”

“That’s not exactly a question, but whatever,” Bellamy admitted. In his mind, he could picture Octavia’s smiling face, her blue eyes wide with energy. He could hear the twinkling sound of her laughter and feel her fingers slipping between his. “Octavia is brilliant. She’s got so much spirit, and so much courage. Nothing scares her, I admire that. She loves to laugh, and run, and dance. She’s… she’s the better part of me. She’s all I have.” A part of him felt strange to be sharing this with Clarke, with her wide eyes and intrigued expression. “She’s my responsibility, my duty. I’d do anything for her.”

“Impressive,” Clarke nodded, taking another swig of moonshine. “Your turn.”

He watched Clarke, seeing how the firelight flickered off the angles of her face. Yes, he supposed she could pass off as pretty, when her eyebrows weren’t knotted together in a look of irritation. For the first time, he tried to gage her age by her appearance. There was a youthful energy in her eyes, in with hardened wisdom that propelled her beyond her years. She looked ageless, in a way.

When Bellamy spoke, he knew his question would be a longshot. But he asked it anyways. “Why did you agree to come with me, to Station City?”

A look of surprise flitted across Clarke’s features. “You had an arrest warrant from the Chancellor and the Chief General of the Royal Guard. Like you said, I didn’t have a choice.”

Bellamy shook his head, catching her in a halfhearted lie. “No, I don’t think that’s it. You say you’re inseparable from your brewer friends, and yet you left anyways. And I find it hard to believe that this is all about getting away from that stable boy.”

Mentioning the brown-haired boy made Clarke stiffen, and Bellamy saw something defensive in how she squared her shoulders. She stared into the fire for a brief while before finally speaking. “It’s like you with your sister. She’s your duty, your responsibility.” She looked up, but wouldn’t meet eyes his. “We all have responsibilities, and I’m stepping up to mine.”

“Fair enough,” he said when it became clear that Clarke wouldn’t share any more. “Next question.”

“What’s your weapon of choice?”

This was unanticipated. “Wow, Princess, I wasn’t expecting _that_ kind of question.”

“It’s a legitimate question, and I’m curious.” She leaned back, her arms propped up behind her. “You’re a royal guard, so you must have training.”

“Damn right I do,” Bellamy couldn’t help but brag a little. He’d proudly ranked at the top of each of his training divisions. “I’m a versatile fighter, probably best with a sword. If I had to choice a favorite, it’d be throwing knives. It’s actually fun, and I’m strong at it too.”

“Oh really?” Clarke asked with a teasing smirk. _Perhaps that moonshine is finally getting to her_. “I’d like to see that. I can throw a knife myself.”

Bellamy scoffed, “Anyone can throw it. That’s not saying anyone can throw it _well_.”

“Fine,” Clarke rose up, slipping her fingers into her boot. She pulled out a slender silver knife with a simple wooden handle. “Pick a target.”

Bellamy stood up too, pulling his smallest knife from a pocket underneath his chestplate. He glanced around their camp, eyes finally settling on a large knotted tree trunk. “There, that knot there.”

“Alright,” Clarke sidled up beside him, and for some odd reason that set him on edge. Being too close to that girl was dancing with lightning. “You first.”

He balanced the knife between his thumb and pointer finger, growing used to the weight in his hand. Shifting his grip, he placed the rest of his fingers on the handle and lined up his target. Bellamy pulled his arm back, then rocketed it forwards. He felt the blade slide from his grip, watching a flash of silver as the blade twirled and struck the tree. The knife was only three inches from the center of the knot.

“Beat that, Clarke,” he boasted, enjoying the glimmer of competition in her eyes. She stepped up and held her knife with only three fingers: pointer, middle, and thumb. Her arms were slender, but Bellamy could see the pure muscle underneath as she launched the knife through the air. The blade spun faster than his did and hit just below the knot.

“Fix your grip,” he advised, giving her a nudge with his elbow. “If you use all of your fingers instead of just three, you’ll have better balance and a smoother launch.”

“Nice try,” she sneered at him. “You’re just bitter because my knife landed closer to the target.”

“Not even close, yours is beneath the knot, mine is right on it.”

“Please,” Clarke groaned, pulling both knives out of the tree and returning to Bellamy. “We’ll just have to try again.” Her fingers brushed his as she handed him his knife back. He tried to ignore the touch of warmth her fingertips left behind as he lined up his aim for another throw.

 

 

 

 


	7. The Hunter's Prey

The light was low in the forest, the sun just beginning to rise. Frozen in a crouch, the hunter sat in total silence. His fingers ran over the smooth surface of the blade in his left hand, feeling the metal glide across his skin. Careful not to nick himself, he played with the knife between his hands.

He could see his target lying fast asleep several yards away. The campfire was dying out, but with the sun rising he’d lost his opportunity to attack in the dark. And how could he get to the girl with her guard just a few feet from her?

 _No,_ Dax reminded himself, sinking lower into his crouch, _I can wait. I’ll wait until she is alone_. He’d wait all night if he had to. The reward was far too good to pass up.

So Dax slunk back, deeper into the thick undergrowth, camouflaged by the brush and bushes and darkness of the early morning, waiting for the chance to strike at his prey.

 

* * *

 

Clarke woke up slowly, as she normally did. She blinked the sleep from her eyes, her gaze focusing on a small thread of smoke winding upwards from their dying fire. Shifting onto her back, she felt her thick cloak – her makeshift bed for the evening – swish underneath her. Midmorning sunlight lit the forest, and she could make out slivers of a bright blue sky beyond the leafy canopy.

She sat up, feeling the chill of September air on her bare collarbone. Glancing across their camp, she saw her guard still asleep, and some part of her felt weird for watching him while he wasn’t awake. But sleep took years off Bellamy’s typically-grumpy face, his eyebrows relaxing and his lips slightly parted. _He can’t be that much older than I am,_ Clarke reasoned. Bellamy slept on his side, like she did, and when he began to stir she tore her gaze away and busied herself with her pack.

“Good morning,” she called out to him, reaching into her bag for an apple and taking a bite. The only response Clarke received was a groan, and she saw Bellamy run a hand over his face to wake himself up.

He sat up and the color drained from his face, “Dammit, Clarke, your moonshine is some nasty stuff. How has your head not split apart?”

She shrugged, “You get used to it, I suppose.” Reaching for her nearby waterskin, she passed it to Bellamy, “Here, drink it off.”

“Really? Solve a hangover by drinking more?”

“It’s just water,” Clarke rolled her eyes. “Either take it or don’t, I don’t care.”

Bellamy looked at her dubiously before taking a long sip. “Empty,” he said, after downing the last of the water. “There wasn’t much in here to begin with.”

“Give it to me,” Clarke sighed, snatching back the waterskin. “I’ll fill it up.” She tugged her boots back on, feeling the broken-in leather mold to the curve of her ankle and foot. It was like wearing a second skin. She stood and crossed to the small pond beside their camp, then paused. In the dimming light of the night before, Clarke hadn’t paid much attention to the tiny stream that fed the pond. Now, she watched it curiously as it crossed over rocks and under exposed roots. It seemed to grow up past some trees, and Clarke felt a strong urge to follow it.

“One moment,” she said to Bellamy, then nimbly hopped to the stream’s side and began following the little river. Clarke could sense the distance she was putting between herself and the camp, but she felt safer remembering her small knife she kept in the lining of her boot. Of course, she knew Bellamy wouldn’t leave her alone anyways. She could hear the distinctive _crunch_ of his heavier footsteps following her through the undergrowth.

Swinging around the side of a thick tree trunk, Clarke’s eyes grew wide. She took in the sight of a wide pool, framed with large mossy rocks on all sides. One edge of the pool sat along a short stone cliff, and a silvery waterfall fell over the side. The water was a glassy green and only disturbed by the slow ripples from the waterfall. It looked like a scene from some exquisite painting.

“Wow,” Clarke felt the word slip past her lips, in awe at the sight of the forest’s hidden gem. Every part of her body ached for a dip in the water.

She heard Bellamy catch up to her, recognizing the feeling of his body beside hers. Clarke could tell he’d relaxed enough to remove his metal chestplate before falling asleep, leaving him in a royal blue shirt and dark black pants. His curls were tousled in that _I-just-woke-up look_ , appropriately.

“Good find, Princess,” he said, his voice just as breathless as hers had been. He slipped the waterskin out of her right hand, approaching the rocks. Crouching down, Bellamy filled the skin with the water from the pool and took a swig. His features relaxed, “The water’s clean, too.”

“Keep drinking,” Clarke knelt beside him, “That’s the best thing to take off the headache.”

“Since when are you a doctor?” Bellamy snarked, refilling the skin and splashing his face clean. Water dripped from his face and hair, beading down the curve of his jaw and nose.

“I know my stuff,” Clarke replied, not wanting to get into it with Bellamy. Running her hands through the water, she longed to jump right in. It’d been quite a while since she’d had a proper bath; not a sponge one like back at her old camp, but a real, swimming bath. She felt grimy. Tugging her hair out of its usual braid, she spoke, “I’m going to take a bath.”

Bellamy’s eyebrows shot up, his face still beaded with water. “Oh, _are_ you?”

“Yes. If I’m returning to Station City, then I want to be feeling clean. And, well, smelling clean.”

“Returning?” Bellamy caught her words, “You never said you were from the capital. Are you?”

 _Damn_ , Clarke swore to herself. She’d been careless. “I lived there, a long time ago.” She shrugged it off, like the detail was unimportant.

“Whatever,” Bellamy said, drying his face on the hem of his shirt. He stood up and folded his arms.

Clarke waited for him to leave. “I’d like to take a bath,” she repeated.

“Fine.”

“Can I have some _privacy,_ Bellamy?”

“Oh,” Color flushed his face, and he ran a hand awkwardly through his hair. He seemed torn between sticking to his post – which would involve watching Clarke bathe – and being a gentleman. “Yeah---”

“I’ll be fine,” Clarke insisted. “I’ve got a knife, and we’re in the middle of nowhere. Just give me ten minutes.”

“Okay,” Bellamy spoke more to himself than to Clarke, still looking embarrassed. “I’ll be back at camp, just that way,” he pointed.

“Alright,” Clarke answered, waiting for Bellamy to finally leave. She smiled to herself, watching him dip around the trees and out of sight. She’d seen him look grumpy, angry, tired, confused, and – very rarely – slightly at ease. Now she could add _awkward_ to that list.

Giving one more glance around the forest, Clarke didn’t see anyone else near the pool. She began to undress, taking off her leather boots, belt, leggings, then her tunic. Just in case she needed to slip away quickly, she left on her undershirt and shorts, hoping that a quick swim would clean them up enough. And of course she didn’t touch the wrist bandage wrapped over her royal mark.

The cold air stung Clarke’s skin, goose-pimples prickling up along her shoulders and above her knees. She took a hesitant step into the pool, a little gasp leaving her lips when her toes touched the water. It was cooler than she’d expected. She stood with the water reaching her ankles, then walked further out. The chill was biting yet refreshing, and when the water touched her hips Clarke dove forward. She slipped below the surface in the perfect dive, arms stretched out and back arching to curve upwards. Her head broke the surface and sent her gasping. Her shoulders trembled from the cold but she could already feel her body adjusting; her toes didn’t feel nearly as chilly as they had before.

The water was deep in the middle of the pool, deep enough where Clarke couldn’t touch the bottom. She was lucky that she’d figured out how to swim at a young age, from when she and Jasper and Monty found a small pool to splash in. Using long overhand strokes, Clarke swam across towards the waterfall. It wasn’t as deep here, and she could comfortably stand with the water just reaching past her chest.

Tilting her head back, Clarke let the cool water of the waterfall spill down her head and shoulders. It poured off her cheeks and down her nose, and for a moment she could wash all of her fears away. Wash away the thought of marrying Wells and becoming queen, the thought of returning to a life she’d tried so hard to forget. She felt it all roll off her shoulders and into the pool, like it was nothing but a stain scrubbed away.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy swore again as he tripped over yet another exposed root, shuffling his feet to regain his balance. _Stupid Clarke and her ability to walk through the forest without making a fool of herself._

He shook his head, as if doing so would actually shake her from his mind. Bellamy supposed that, by leaving her alone for a few minutes, he’d be able to forget about Clarke for a little while. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Part of him didn’t like the idea of abandoning his post, even for just for a moment. He didn’t think Clarke would actually run away; he was worried that something could happen to her.

 _Nonsense,_ Bellamy reminded himself. Clarke was as tough as nails and fearsome enough to defend herself without him being there. And really, why was he so worried about her?

He wanted to blame this on Octavia’s situation, assume that his worry about Clarke stemmed from her being the key to his sister’s freedom. But a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach told him otherwise. What if he was actually growing to _care_ about the girl? Bellamy scoffed; this was _Clarke_. She was frustrating, and moody, and knew exactly how to make him steam. And he didn’t even think he remotely liked Clarke. _Tolerated_ , that was a better word for it.

But he certainly wouldn’t want to see any harm come to her.

 His mind drifted to the memory of last night, Clarke sitting beside the campfire and the firelight bringing a warm glow to her face. He remembered how her smile lightened her entire persona, how she talked openly with him like she trusted him completely. Her teasing jabs, her competitive streak, how her fingertips felt when they brushed his----

The front of Bellamy’s boot caught on a large rock, sending him tumbling forwards. He stopped a few feet off the ground, catching the nearby trunk of an evergreen for support. Swearing impressively, he wiped the images of Clarke from his mind and filled his time by packing up their camp.

 

* * *

 

Clarke dragged her hand lazily across the rippled surface of the pool, loving the way the water sparkled over her fingers. She leaned back, feeling her wet hair balloon out behind her as it fanned out on the surface. Kicking her feet upwards, she slid back into floating, staring up at the cornflower sky through the trees.

She tried to imagine what the sea would be like: one giant expanse of a pool like this, stretching on and on as far as you could see. Clarke could picture real waves, and air that smelled like salt, and wind tossing her hair.

But thinking about the sea brought her mind to Finn. She’d tried hard to keep him out of her thoughts, and it wasn’t easy. The image of him with Raven draped across his body seemed to be seared into her brain, her own personal torture that keep crawling up from her subconscious. It was as though all of the little puzzle pieces, the little hints she’d missed for months, were falling into place, painting a picture of a cheater. All the times he’d deftly sidestepped her questions, or failed to look her straight in the eye, or gave a quick vague answer and covered it up with a kiss or caress.

And, even though she couldn’t believe that she was recognizing this, she was grateful that Bellamy had the tact not to bring Finn up. It wouldn’t take a genius or perfect vision to see that Finn had hurt Clarke, but her guard had largely avoided the subject.

Clarke heard the sound of a twig snapping, and her head shot up. She lost her balance, feet sinking down beneath her as she rested into treading water. Staring into the forest in the direction of the sound, she figured it was Bellamy being too heavy-footed in the woods, as usual.

“So much for privacy, Bellamy,” she called out, slightly irritated. She’d expected better from someone with enough honor to serve as a royal guard. Squinting, she could just make the outline of someone’s boot, hidden behind thick bushes. They were large and squarish and familiar in appearance.

More sounds of branches snapping, and Clarke swam over towards the edge of the pool. She’d didn’t notice that her boots and the rest of her clothes were on the other side, lying atop a distant rock. She just wanted to know what he was doing, and why he was watching her.

“Something I can help you with?” Clarke raised her voice, pushing herself onto a mossy boulder and folding her arms over her chest. She could feel her woven undershirt and shorts sticking tightly to her wet body, and there was a deep chill running down her spine.

The pair of boots moved forwards, stepping out from behind the bushes. All blood drained from Clarke’s face when she saw that they weren’t attached to Bellamy, but another man entirely. His face was all angles where Bellamy’s had curves, and there was something crazed in his eyes. A hood fell low across his head, obscuring half of his face, and Clarke could see how tall and fit he was beneath the cloak.

Surprisingly, now she was _really_ wishing that it had been Bellamy.

“What do you want?” Clarke asked, not liking the look in his eyes one bit.

“So you’re the one they sent me to find,” he said, his voice quieter than she’d expected. There was smooth control in it, and she found it unnerving. “But I can see that they left some… _details_ unmentioned.” From the way his eyes combed her body hungrily, she could tell that he liked the look of these _details_.

He took a step forwards and Clarke backed up into the rock behind her. “Get away from me.”

“They never said I couldn’t have a little fun with you before I killed you.”

Clarke’s blood ran cold. “ _Killed_ me?”

“What do you say, pretty girl?” His teeth flashed, “Want to play?”

Clarke broke off in a run to her right, trying to make it to her boots – and her knife. The assassin stepped in front of her, so she jerked left and scrambled onto the rocks. Her feet flew across the boulders while he dove for her, grabbing her ankle and sending her crashing down onto the rock. For a second, Clarke saw stars. Yanking herself out of her stupor, she kicked at the assassin in the face and ran for the rock cliff. If she could just make it to the top, she could put enough distance between herself and the man behind her…

She leapt onto the first ledge, fingers digging for handholds along the mossy stone. Her foot slipped and she felt rough hands grab at her waist from below. Clarke cried out, kicking blindly behind her as the assassin wrestled her off the rock and dragged her down. She landed in a heap below him, managing to tug her right arm free and launch a vicious punch across the man’s jaw.

The assassin went reeling backwards, his elbows just stopping his fall. Clarke gasped for breath, hesitating for too long as her head pounded from her crash on the rocks. He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and spat onto the ground.

“So, you want to play rough, do you?” The look in his eyes was positively insane now. “I can do rough.”

Clarke rose to her knees only to be knocked right back down. She saw the flash of a metal blade before feeling it rip into her leg, the pain coursing up her body in a hot rush that sent a scream tearing from her lips.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy was ready to get walking. He’d snuffed the dying fire, restocked his pack and even fixed up Clarke’s. He was just beginning to reattach his chestplate when he heard a strange noise.

It sounded like a cry. Bellamy’s blood ran cold when he heard it, stuck in place. His brain naturally thought of Octavia, with his protective instinct kicking in to go and fight for her. But of course it couldn’t be Octavia, out in the middle of deep forest far from Station City, so his mind jumped to the next conclusion.

_Clarke._

Bellamy dropped his chestplate, the metal crashing onto the ground as he took off in a sprint towards the pool. He followed the stream, stomping his way through it as he flew past the trees. His blood, having finally crept up from his toes, was pounding hard in his ears like incessant drumming. _I have my back turned for a few minutes and…_

He broke through the tree line just as another scream pierced his ears. This one wasn’t out of fear or desperation: this was a cry of pure pain, the kind that ripped his heart just listening to it. He saw Clarke lying crumpled, her face twisted in a look of agony. Looming over her was a cloaked figure with wild eyes, his right arm holding a knife that dripped blood over her wounded body.

Something primal, almost animalistic, welled up with Bellamy as he launched himself at Clarke’s attacker. He threw the taller man to the ground, landing blow after blow onto his surprised face. The assassin finally came to, jamming his fist hard against Bellamy’s temple and sending the guard flying. As Bellamy came tumbling down to the ground, his legs kicked out at the assassin and caught him in the stomach. Through his red vision, Bellamy watched the stained blade fly from the assassin’s hand to land on the slippery moss nearby.

The hooded assassin lunged for his knife, but Bellamy was too strong. He leapt over the man, diving on his stomach and swooping up the short knife with an outstretched hand. He rolled onto his back and slammed his fist against the assassin’s neck, plunging the knife deep into his jugular vein.

The man shuddered, blood spilling from his neck and mouth as he fought to breathe. He slumped backwards, eyes still open wide as the life bled from his body.

Bellamy was breathing heavily, taking in the dead man in front of him before remembering Clarke. He crawled to her side, seeing her struggling to sit up. She looked like hell: her undergarments her plastered to her shivering body, hair stringy over terrified eyes and blood pouring from a nasty stab wound to her upper left thigh. Her breathing was shallow and labored, and she closed her eyes tight as her body shook.

“Dammit, Clarke,” Bellamy said under his breath, taking in the sight of her injury and not knowing where to begin. He knew basic first aid, but his mind seemed to be frozen at the sight of her looking this broken.

Her eyes skirted over to the body of her attacker. “Is he---?” Clarke’s words were a strained whisper.

Bellamy nodded, throat thick. “What do I do?” He felt helpless.

“Get me --- back to camp. I have supplies, I…” Her voice faded out and she clenched her hands tightly, fingers growing white.

Knowing he needed to act quickly, Bellamy leaned to her left side and slipped an arm under her shoulder. He pulled her upright into a standing position, and she let out a loud cry of pain. Bellamy took three steps, trying to coax Clarke into using her right leg to help her walk, but he ended up shouldering most of Clarke’s weight as she collapsed in his grip. Grunting, he reached underneath her knee and scooped her up in his arms, finding it easier to just carry her. Clarke’s hung on around his neck, and he felt her face burrow into his shoulder as he marched back to camp. He moved as quickly as he could without dropping the precious cargo trembling in his arms.

After what felt like miles of trekking Bellamy returned to the camp, gently setting Clarke down on the ground. She spoke through gritted teeth, “Grab me my bag, and relight the fire.”

He nodded, tossing the  pack over to her after pulling out her worn flintstone and a knife from it. Crouching over the remainder of their firewood, he struck the stone with the blade until sparks flew. Soon a little fire was glowing.

“Good,” Clarke said, reaching for something deep within her pack. She withdrew a familiar waterskin: the smaller one holding her moonshine. Clarke tossed back a deep swig, then poured a splash out over her wound. A cry flew from her raw throat, back arching in pain as the alcohol cleaned the cut. Something curdled in Bellamy’s blood at the sound of Clarke’s screams.

“Clarke,” he dropped by her side, hands hovering but not sure what to do.

“I’m fine,” she spat, making it crystal clear that she _wasn’t_. “Heat my knife in the fire, heat the blade.”

“Okay,” he said, turning to grab the knife again and sticking it into the blue of the flames. He watched the blade begin to glow orange, trying to focus on the color change and not how labored Clarke’s breathing sounded. When the blade started to glow red, he called for Clarke. “Blade’s ready, now what?”

Bellamy saw her wound in sickening detail: the angry stab mark deep into her flesh, the blood spilling out and down the pale skin of her leg. He could tell that she’d tried to wipe up some of the red with the bottom of her cloak, but she’d done a sloppy job of it. Picking up where she’d left off, he gently dabbed at the skin to try and clean off some of the blood, but more just kept coming.

Clarke pushed his hand away, “Seal the wound with the knife.”

His stomach dropped. He’d hoped she wouldn’t ask him to do that.

“It’s the quickest way to stop the bleeding, Bell…”

His ears prickled, hearing her refer to him by that name. Only Octavia ever called him “Bell”. Hearing Clarke say it just made her sound more broken and vulnerable. He nodded, flattening the blade in his hand and lining it up over her leg. Glancing up, he saw the fear in Clarke’s eyes.

“Hey, don’t look at it.” He grabbed her chin with his left hand, bringing her gaze up to his. “Look at me instead. Just… look at me.” Her eyes were huge and watery and growing bloodshot, but he could see the sliver of trust behind layers of fear. Bellamy took a quick breath before pressing the blade down.

His senses were overloaded: his ears assaulted by Clarke’s cries of sheer agony, his eyes watching the terrifying way her features contorted in pain, nose catching the awful smell of burning flesh. After the blade sizzled against her leg, he pulled it up. The wound was angry and red and inflamed, but the burn had sealed it and stopped the bleeding. Clarke was right.

She was also trembling, a bead of sweat running down her temple along the gentle curve of her cheek. “Bandages,” she murmured, reaching for her pack.

“I’ve got it.” Bellamy found the wad of fabric she was looking for; of course Clarke had come prepared. Unrolling it, he wrapped the bandage around her leg slowly before tying it off. He wasn’t any doctor, but the wound sure looked a hell of a lot more manageable once it’d been cleaned up and covered.

Clarke turned towards him. “Thank you,” she said breathlessly, then sank forward. Bellamy caught her with his shoulder, stopping her fall. He was about to move her off of him when her head sank into his collarbone and froze him altogether.

“Bell,” she slurred.

“What?”

“I think it’s my birthday today.”

“Not a great way to spend your birthday.” Looking down at the girl lying against his chest, feeling the unsteady rise and fall of her breathing as she drifted out of consciousness, he didn’t want to move her. Instead, Bellamy leaned backwards himself, resting against a trunk.

It was strange, the way her head fit neatly along the curve of his neck, her half-dry blond hair tickling his chin. Bellamy ignored the fact that Clarke was barely dressed and slid a protective arm out from underneath her, pressing her shoulder back. Her body adjusted to his, turning inwards against him as she fell asleep. Soon Bellamy found himself absentmindedly stroking Clarke’s hair, mind wandering back to the man he’d killed out of self-defense, and exhaustion began to seep through the fading adrenaline to pull him asleep as well.

 

* * *

 

When Clarke awoke the sun was lower in the sky than she’d remembered. _Of course that makes sense, I’ve been sleeping,_ she thought groggily to herself, rubbing her eye. She shifted her leg, wincing audibly. Glancing down, she saw the bandage wrapped around her upper leg and remembered the attacker at the pool.

“I wouldn’t try and push yourself too much,” came Bellamy’s voice from across the fire. He was sitting on a rock, weight forward and hands on his knees. There was something strange in the way he looked at her, something protective. “We don’t know how your leg is going to hold up.”

Clarke frowned, “Why are you making it sound like it was my fault?”

“It’s your leg, that would make sense.”

“That’s a low blow, Bellamy,” she groaned, “It was a freak attack.”

He furrowed his brow, “Yeah, why the hell would some crazy charge you with a knife? We’re actually in the middle of nowhere. There’s probably no one for miles around. And yet, _you_ manage to catch a psychopath during the one minute I have my back turned.”

“Excuse me? Sorry I wanted to clean myself up, didn’t know that’s considered a crime now.”

“I’m just saying, you couldn’t have been a little more… careful?” There was irritation written all over his face.

“I wasn’t _expecting_ to be attacked, you ass!”

“That psycho would’ve killed you if I didn’t hear you. You weren’t exactly defending yourself.”

“And what do you want? A formally-proclaimed thank you? A statue erected in your honor?”

“God, Clarke,” he grumbled, running a hand through his hair with a dark look on his face. Suddenly he stiffened, standing up quickly. “What was that?”

Clarke whipped her head around, then struggled to push herself up. She could sit up, but standing would be more of a challenge. “What are you talking about?”

“Did you hear that?”

“I didn’t hear---”

An arrow ripped through the air, slicing the space beside Bellamy’s left ear and hitting the tree behind him. He jumped, reaching for his sword and holding it out in a defensive stance. Instead of charging after his attacker, he stayed a few paces in front of Clarke.

Clarke pushed up with her arms, grabbing onto the trunk behind her and trying to stand. She gave a cry when she felt pain race down her leg.

“Clarke?”

A familiar voice called out for her, running up from her right. Her eyes went wide when she recognized the dark hair and bright gaze of Monty, scrambling through the trees towards her. Bellamy stepped to the side, standing between the two of them just as Jasper emerged from the other side, bow in his hands and ready to fire again.

“Get the hell away from her,” Jasper said in a deep, serious voice.

“Stay back,” Bellamy warned.

“Clarke, are you okay?” Monty shouted again.

“If you so much as touch her---”

“What are you two doing here?” Clarke interrupted Jasper, incredulous. “How did you find me?”

“You weren’t exactly covering your trail. Or at least _he_ wasn’t.” Monty motioned to Bellamy.

The guard’s stare was locked on Jasper’s bow. “Drop your weapon.”

“Not until you back away from Clarke,” Jasper said, holding his ground.

“I don’t want to have to fight you, but you _did_ shoot first…”

“Put the sword down and step away from her. She’s no longer your prisoner.”

“Jasper, I’m fine really---”

“Prisoner?” Bellamy said, “Not quite. I’m to escort her to Station City, by order of the Chancellor and the---”

“I don’t care,” Jasper shook his head, speaking fast. “About any stupid order from the Chancellor or anyone else. I don’t care that she’s the freaking royal heir, you’re not taking our Clarke away from us without a fight!”

“Royal heir? Who said anything about the royal heir?”

Clarke’s blood froze.

_Son of a bitch._

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. When Reality Bites

“Who said anything about the royal heir?”

Bellamy kept his sword out in front of him, trusting his quick reflexes to fight off any arrows Jasper might send flying. But his eyes swiveled to Clarke, who was currently leaning halfway-upright against a tree, face paler than the moon. The worst part was the look of sheer terror in her eyes as she stared at Bellamy, like he was the attacker with the wounding knife in his hands. It was raw, exposed emotion, and he wasn’t used to seeing something so plainly on her face.

 _That’s what Jasper said, right?_ His mind second-guessed his hearing. _The royal heir._ From the blushing shocked look that was creeping over Jasper’s features, Bellamy figured that he wasn’t supposed to say that. In the heat of the moment, he’d gotten swept up in emotion.

“What is he talking about, Clarke?”

The foursome stood in silence, like the little patch of forest had frozen over. Bellamy could hear his own racing breathing, the defensive adrenaline pumping through his veins. Clarke, on the other hand, looked like she couldn’t even move to breathe.

The second boy – Monty, he inferred – broke the quiet. He addressed his companion: “Way to go, dumbass.”

“I didn’t--- I--- Clarke,” Jasper pleaded, embarrassed, “It slipped out, I didn’t---”

“Shut up, Jasper,” Clarke commanded, her voice quiet but firm.

 _Royal heir_. The thought was ridiculous. The only royals left in Ark were of the Griffin family, and that line would end with Queen Abigail’s death. After she’d lost her only daughter in that attack those many years ago…

But Bellamy had grown up in Station City, so naturally he’d heard the conspiracy theories: stories that believed that the young princess wasn’t dead but alive and in hiding. He knew little about the Griffin family, so he’d stayed out of the debates entirely. It didn’t make sense to form opinions about something he didn’t know about. And yet, he still heard the theories…

And that’s when Bellamy saw Clarke slide her left arm behind her, moving it further back against the trunk. His gaze caught the bandage wound tightly around her wrist – a bandage that she’d refused to remove even while bathing. The little that Bellamy remembered about the Griffin royal family included their tattooed symbol that they each received at their christening. A royal mark that they wore… on their left wrist.

“Show me your arm.” When Bellamy spoke, his voice was deeper and chillier than he’d intended. “Your left arm.”

“Bellamy,” Clarke’s face begged him not to push her.

“If you have nothing to hide, then show me.”

Bellamy had taken a step forward, so Jasper raised his bow again. “Come any closer and I’ll---”

“Fine!” Clarke cried out, forcing herself to stand fully upright. She took an unsteady step forward, and Bellamy could see her wince but fight through it. Grabbing the fabric on her left arm, she tugged the bandage hard. The fading sunlight caught the ink of her tattoo. She held out her wrist. “There. There you have it.”

Bellamy’s breath caught in his throat. Even upside-down, he recognized a gothic script “G” encircled by the geometric ringlet of a crown. It was the symbol that adorned the flags at the royal palace, the tapestries in the hallways, even the special goblets at the queen’s table. It was the mark that he’d seen his entire life, one way or another.

It was the mark he’d watched roll by, painted elaborately onto the side of a luxurious carriage moving through the dusty streets of the capital. He could remember standing in the crowd lining the road, catching a glimpse of the king and queen waving from within the vessel. Deep in the recesses of his memory, he could recall the small blond head of a young princess, with bright eyes and a haughty look on her face. She couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old.

And when Bellamy looked up at Clarke’s face, it was like seeing a whole different person. He wasn’t seeing the pickpocket who’d snatched his baited money pouch and ran off. He saw a blend of features from the king and queen, the older version of that small princess in the carriage.

_Holy shit._

“You?” He choked out, in a word that was somewhere between a dry laugh and a cough. His nose wrinkled in disbelief, “Are you serious? _You?_ ”

Clarke’s eyes narrowed, “Yes, believe it or not.”

“But you’re… you’re…” Bellamy shook his head.

Monty stepped forward, “Listen, it’s not like they’re giving those tattoos out to just anyone. That’s the royal mark, so she’s a royal. _The_ royal.”

“They sent me to bring back the _heir_?” Bellamy spoke slowly, placing the pieces together. In a way, it all made sense: the one-man mission, the secrecy, the urgency.

“Today I turned twenty-one. That means I’ll be married off to the Chancellor’s son as soon as I reach Station City, and become queen not long after that.” Clarke even spoke like it wasn’t as big of a deal as it was.

Now that Bellamy saw Clarke – _Clarissa? –_ for what she really was, he couldn’t unsee it. He recognized her status in the little things she would do: how calmly authoritative her voice would become when ordering him around, how she kept her head up and above him, the way her eyes scrutinized him with her sharp gaze. For a moment, he tried to recall the image of Clarke from before --- how her golden head fit just under his and how she clung to him after the incident at the pool. How she almost made him feel something. _Almost_.

“Give me a minute,” he mumbled under his breath, pushing out of the circle and deeper into the woods. Bellamy wandered off, finding himself following the familiar stream back in the direction of the pool. He ran a hand over his face, his brain feeling sluggish to catch up.

_Clarke. Clarissa._

_The princess_.

“What an idiot,” he growled to himself. He remembered their harmless teasing from the night before, when they were showing off to each other. Her smile was so easy and carefree, but maybe that was just the moonshine getting to her. His boot kicked at a stone, sending it skidding across into the stream.

When Bellamy reentered the pool’s clearing, the first thing he saw was the corpse of the assassin. The body had swollen in the heat and become a haven for flies. The sight alone was enough to bring Bellamy’s stomach up into his throat. His lips tightened and eyes settled on a nearby patch of looser soil. He nudged it with the toe of his boot, feeling the dirt come apart nicely. It would be easier to dig here.

Crouching down, Bellamy began to dig a deep hole. He started using a rock to break through, then continued with his sword’s scabbard for a makeshift shovel. When the deeper rocks became harder to dig through, he switched to his fingers and kept clawing. He was making surprisingly good progress with his hole, and it wasn’t long before he had a substantial grave dug into the ground.

Now came the awful part. Bellamy took slow, heavy steps over towards the body, blood pulsing thick against his ears. The bloated face of the assassin was contorted and terrifying to look at, and the only way Bellamy could stomach it was by imaging the crazed look of the killer in action and using that to justify his fate. He bent down to pick the corpse clean, trying not to breathe over the rotting body. The assassin traveled light, but Bellamy was able to claim a few knives and a half-empty bottle of mead. He didn’t bother with the rest, instead wrapping the assassin’s heavy cloak over his body and using it to drag the corpse into his dug grave.

He re-shoveled the displaced dirt in tedious silence, the only sounds being the steady splash of thrown soil and Bellamy’s own breathing. By the time the body was halfway covered, he heard footsteps approaching him from behind. Normally, he would’ve jumped and been on his sword in the blink of an eye. But he recognized the unsteady footfalls of a limping person and knew it must be Clarke.

“Let me help,” she said, and he could hear the tiredness in her voice. It mustn’t have been easy to reach him on her injured leg.

“Already done.”

He used large handfuls to finish the job, not giving her the satisfaction of joining him. Bellamy kept his back to Clarke, but he could hear her coming closer.

“You didn’t have to do that, Bellamy.”

“The body was going to rot anyways. At least this way it doesn’t disturb the lovely scenery.” He could hear bitterness in his voice.

“He was a killer, an assassin sent to kill me,” Clarke said. “He didn’t deserve a burial like that.”

“I was tired of looking at the body.” Bellamy rose, dusting his dirty hands off on his pants, then deciding to dunk them in the water instead. As he did, he saw Clarke’s reflection from behind him. Her face was pale and concerned.

“I’m sorry,” she spoke finally, “Sorry that I didn’t tell you.”

“Whatever.”

“I couldn’t trust you. It’s not that I didn’t _want_ to, but I couldn’t trust anyone.”

“I understand that,” he spoke honestly. “You would’ve been stupid to reveal something like that to a total stranger. I don’t hold that against you, it was the right thing to do.”

She folded her arms, still reading his chilliness. “So what’s the issue, then?”

What could he tell her? That he wished it _wasn’t_ the right thing to do? “It’s a lot to process, that’s all.” He finally rose and turned around, but wouldn’t look her in the eye. In fact, he tried pretty hard to look anywhere else.

“You should come back to camp,” she said. “It’s going to get dark soon.”

“We’ve lost an entire day,” he said with a scowl. He remembered the sight of Octavia in the prison cell, and he was internally kicking himself for getting distracted. _Damn Clarke getting in the way_. “We should have been moving, we’re losing too much time.”

“Sorry to inconvenience you,” Clarke snapped.

“Whatever, Princess.” Bellamy fully understood the irony of that name now. “Head to camp. Careful with that leg, I’m not going to carry you back again.” He set off down the trail again, walking far ahead of Clarke and not stopping to see – or really caring – if she was following.

 

* * *

 

Raven wasn’t sure if it was possible to fall asleep while walking, but she was definitely coming close. She’d been marching down the same road for hours now, waiting to reach the stables that signaled the start of a trading caravan heading into Station City. In her pockets jingled her savings: enough to get her to the capital in one piece, plus a little extra to get her started on building a new life. Somehow she’d managed to pack all of her belongings in one large bag slung over her shoulder, but thinking about it, it shouldn’t have been surprising at all. Raven had never been a girl of many possessions, or worldly attachments. She’d never been used to having much.

She’d had Finn. That was about it.

“Asshole,” she growled to herself just thinking about him. Finn had Clarke, and he didn’t even bother to tell her about it. Either he thought Raven was too stupid to ever find out, or didn’t respect her enough to think she was worth all of his attention. No matter which way she tried to spin it, it left Finn looking manipulative and Raven feeling hollow.

The road she was traveling on turned right up ahead, so Raven followed along. Towards the end she spotted the warm glow of firelight, making out a series of lanterns illuminating a wooden structure in the distance. She felt like an enormous weight was lifted off her shoulder, placing a new spring in her step as she marched towards the stables.

And that’s when she noticed that the caravan had already left.

“No,” she breathed, “No, no no!” She jogged up to the stables, hurrying to the older man working there. “When did the party leave?”

“Less than an hour ago,” he said, gaping holes in his tooth grin. He pointed a bony finger towards another road, this one leading away from the path Raven had taken.

Turning, Raven snatched a lantern off the wall and broke into a run. Her feet carried her swiftly down the road, pumping her left arm while being careful to keep the lantern steady in her right. Grateful that she’d had the foresight to travel in trousers, she adjusted her speed and fell into a brisk jogging pace. With any luck, she’d reach the departed caravan soon.

The road took her past farms and fields, shrouded in darkness as the sun fell. Her face stung from the wind, drying the corners of her eyes. A smile naturally broke over her face; she couldn’t help it. Something about the sensation of running – practically flying – her hair streaming behind her and eyes stinging, it forced her to forget for a little while.

Finally, she could make out the silhouette of a carriage bumping along the road. Relief coursed through her veins, and Raven quickened her pace, waving her arms. “Hey!” She cried out, “Wait up, please!”

She could hear nondistinct chatter from the closest wagon and watched as the wheels slowed down. For a brief moment, the wagon came to a halt as Raven approached it. She ran up beside the driver.

“Here,” she said, pressing her travel fare in coins into his hand. Her face was flushed and eyes were wild, but she didn’t care. Raven was getting out of Tondc if it would kill her. “Please tell me this is enough to cover the ride.”

The driver looked down his lumpy nose to count the coins, then gave a nod. “Climb in,” he grumbled.

Raven gripped the side of the wagon firmly, propping one leg up onto a lip before hauling herself over. She landed ungracefully, her cloak awkwardly wrapped around her body. As she untangled herself, she caught the face of the other traveler in this wagon.

“John Murphy?”

His features were difficult to make out clearly, but the light from her stolen lantern picked up his sunken eyes and pointed nose. Lank hair fell in a swoop across his forehead, and his posture was one of a man who didn’t want to be seen.

Raven leaned closer, lifting the lantern to get better light. Murphy shrank away from the glow.

“Jesus, wanna put that thing down?” He growled, shifting his shoulders.

“I knew it was you.” Raven said it with a smirk, like she’d proven something important. “But… why? Last time I saw you, you were working the counter at the City of Light.”

“Excuse you, grease monkey, I _owned_ the City of Light. As in, it was mine. Not just a worker, _mine._ ”

“Well, I stand corrected. But why are you leaving Tondc, then?” She took in the stuffed bag sitting close to Murphy’s feet, assuming that it carried his belongings.

He looked indifferent, but his words were otherwise. “Believe it or not, when you sell untaxed booze almost exclusively for a year, the guard eventually catches up to you. When I caught wind that they were coming for me with an arrest warrant, I skipped town. Boarded up the tavern and everything.”

“I’m sorry, Murphy.” It felt strange to be comforting someone with such a notoriously tough shell, but Raven felt obligated to do so anyways.

“Why do you care?”

“I’d go to your tavern when I could. I’ve had a few fun times there.” She gave a halfhearted grin. “It was a good place.”

“Yeah it was.” Murphy uncorked a round jug of liquor – probably the last of his illegal stash – and took a swig. He slumped forward, resting his arms on his knees and lifting an eyebrow at Raven. “You know where I got all my booze from?”

Raven knew there were illegal distillers on the outskirts of town, “Those two kids, you know who I’m talking about? Goggles and the other one.”

“Sure. But you know who worked with them, especially during deliveries? That blonde chick, Clarke.” His eyes contained a smirk as his gaze held Raven’s. “You know Clarke, don’t you?”

Any trace of a grin was wiped clean off Raven’s face, her expression becoming fierce. She almost dismissed Murphy’s reference as accidental, if she didn’t spot the corners of his mouth twitching upwards in a haughty, teasing sneer.

“That’s real low, Murphy. Even for you.” Raven’s voice was ice. “Here I am, offering you sympathy for getting caught like a sitting duck, and you retaliate with _that_.”

“So I’m guessing you found out about it, then,” he jeered. “Only a matter of time. Your stable boy was good with keeping it secret, but, you know, people talk. Word gets around, and soon half the town knows.” He took another swig, “Kind of interesting, the fact that _no one_ thought to fill you in. Guess you didn’t have as many friends as you thought.”

Raven had half the mind to send a punch across Murphy’s smug little face. But the last thing she wanted was to be kicked off the caravan for starting a fight. _It doesn’t matter anyways,_ she told herself, _You’re never going back to Tondc._

“You are one pathetic son of a bitch, John Murphy.”

“Don’t worry,” he tossed his chin upwards, “The feeling is mutual.”

Raven sunk backwards, pushing up against the rough wooden walls of the wagon. She curled her knees into her chest, trying to find a comfortable position to sit and maybe even sleep in. But Murphy’s barbed words – as empty and stupid as they were – were rattling around in her brain like a marble in an empty jar. Her stomach twisted at the scent of his booze breath.

It was going to be a long ride.

 

* * *

 

“Here’s where my dad and I live,” Maya said, pushing aside a curtain that served as their front door. “It’s not much, but you can stay here until you get your own place set up. If you want.”

Their shack was situated off a side street from the main Underworld courtyard, jammed between other homes so tightly they resembled books on a shelf. The main room was narrow, but Octavia saw how they made up for it. Maya and her father didn’t waste space, and every corner was packed with things hanging off the walls, from the ceiling, and piling up on the floor. There was a worn carpet underfoot, made from scraps of fabric much like Maya’s dress was. The furniture looked crude and rickety in appearance, but – similar to the homes around them – was much stronger in application. Octavia strolled slowly by a shelf, marveling at the strange assortments of trinkets lined up: glass marbles of different sizes, an old iron pendant, something made from bone, feathers from a strange bird.

“The view’s not too bad, either,” Maya said, shrugging her shoulders. Something in her face told Octavia that it was an understatement, so the new girl followed her up a set of hobbly stairs. They were steep and compact, slats of wooden arranged more like a ladder than a traditional staircase. Octavia rose up through a hole in the ceiling, reaching the second floor.

“My dad sleeps back here,” Maya tugged back another curtain, this one serving as a wall divider. She pushed through, leading Octavia to the front of the home. “I sleep here.” There was a makeshift bed pushed against a wall, a stuffed mattress stacked on some crates to lift it off the floor. One circular window hung in the center of the far wall, its glass muddy and hard to see through. Releasing a lever, Maya opened the window and Octavia got her first birds-eye view of the Underworld.

They couldn’t be more than twenty feet off the ground, but she could see over most of the underground city. She could see the tops of different buildings and glimpse the town square. In the distant, Octavia made out the shallow cave dwellings, much like Lincoln’s. All of The Underworld was caught between light and dark, with torches and lanterns casting a warm fireglow in an otherwise shadowy cavern. These bright spots shone like gold flecks against dirt.

“This is amazing,” Octavia muttered, catching the reflection of her awed look in the windowpane.

“Yeah, there is some beauty in a place like this,” Maya said.

“No, really. It’s incredible that you’ve survived – that this whole _city_ has survived – right under the nose of the palace.” After her experience at the palace, Octavia loved the idea of being just out of their reach. It was like playing mind games with a former tormentor. “And I like to stay you with, if that’s fine.”

“Of course,” Maya offered a smile. “We should probably make one more stop for tonight, there’s someone you should meet.”

“Alright,” Octavia reluctantly parted with the window, heading back down the stairs and out the door behind Maya. The energy of the city was changing, slowing down for the evening.

“Where are you taking me now?”

“To Wick,” Maya said, as if that explained everything. “He’s sort of--- Think of him as our unofficial one-man welcome team. He’s great with people, so he takes it upon himself to meet newcomers and make sure they get settled. Plus, you’ll probably want to take a look at his shop.”

“What does he sell?”

“In fancy terms he calls himself an ‘engineer’, but in reality he just creates things. Almost anything, especially if it has metal in it. He’s surprisingly good at making weapons. You should pick out a knife, or something to arm yourself with.”

Octavia’s brows furrowed, “I thought I could be safe down here.”

“Of course,” Maya corrected herself, “It’s more for utility than self-defense. But it doesn’t hurt to be on your guard. After all,” She gave an oddly mischievous grin, “This is a city full of criminals.”

Strangely enough, Maya’s words didn’t make Octavia uneasy, and she was eager to meet this Wick. They approached an entirely-metal hut, with a real hinged door. Maya pushed it open, calling out, “Wick? You in here?”

“In the back.” The responding voice was muffled and tight. Octavia followed Maya, navigating among draft tables and piles of all sorts of scrap metal. Maya was right: Wick’s workshop had just about _anything_ if it was made of metal.

“New girl here,” Maya said, stopping in front of a large hunk of twisted steel at the back of the shop. There was a pair of legs poking out from beneath it.

“New girl?” The voice came from underneath the work in progress, and Octavia heard the _thud_ of a clumsy head hitting the underbelly. Swearing, a figure pushed himself out from underneath his work and rose to standing. Wick was positively filthy, covered in grease and grim and dirt. Over his clothes hung a stained apron, and his hands were covered by long leathery gloves reaching up to his elbows. He brushed his blond hair from his eyes, and it continued to stand up in all directions. But his eyes were bright and his face was inviting.

“Nice to meet you.” He stuck out a gloved hand, then thought against it and took the glove off before offering his hand again. There seemed to be grease stains permanently embedded in his skin. “Kyle Wick, Underworld engineer and notoriously handsome devil. The ladies call me Wick.”

“ _Everyone_ calls you Wick,” Maya rolled her eyes.

“True story.”

“I’m Octavia,” she said, shaking his hand politely. “Maya’s been showing me around.”

“Doing my job, eh Vie?” Wick teased, calling Maya by what must have been her last name. “No biggie. What can I do you for, Miss Octavia?”

“She needs a knife,” Maya answered for her.

“Do you now? You’ve come to the right place then.” Wick rummaged in what looked like a pile of scrap, pulling out a worn case and popping it open. It was filled, brim to brim, with an impressive variety of knives. “What kind are you looking for?”

There was one knife that stood out to Octavia, with a longer blade and a polished bone handle. Something about it seemed fierce and elegant at the same time. “How about that one?”

“This?” Wick scoffed, “It’s the knife of a warrior.”

“And what says I’m no warrior?” Octavia leaned back and folded her arms.

Wick mirrored her position, egging her on. “Where are you from, Miss Octavia?”

“From the palace. I escaped.”

He looked her up and down. “Nobility girl? You certainly dress like one.”

“Former playmate of Cage Wallace. And _not_ by choice.”

“Ouch,” Wick winced at the thought. “I can see now why you ran away.”

“Exactly. The palace guards were chasing me, but I made it into the sewers before they could catch me.”

“Interesting.” Wick answered but shifted his gaze to Maya. Something passed between them, something that Octavia couldn’t read. He kept his eyes on Maya but addressed the other girl. “You know how to fight, Octavia?”

“No, but I’m a fast learner.”

“No, Wick,” Maya said firmly.

“Come on. Not many girls would be able to outrun the palace guards and get away. Not many _people_ for that matter.”

“Look, she just showed up, let her adjust---”

“I’m not saying right now, I’m saying we give her some time and---”

“What are you talking about?” Octavia interrupted. “I’m right here.”

“Wick is getting ahead of himself.” Maya shot him a glare before focusing on the knives in the case. “Have you picked out your knife?”

“Yes, that bone one.” Octavia pointed. She reached behind her neck, unclasping her heavy ruby necklace and holding it out. “Will this be enough to cover the knife?”

Wick nodded, accepting the necklace. As he folded up the case, he raised a single eyebrow. “You know, if there’s anything else you’d like to be taking off---”

“Wick!” Maya cut him off with another sharp glance, leaving Octavia to blush and smirk a little. They were an odd pair, these two.

“I know, I know. Watch my behavior, use my manners, yada yada ya.”

“On second thought,” Octavia reached down and stepped out of her awful palace heels, kicking them towards Wick. “Take these too. Maybe use them as fire fuel or something.”

 

* * *

 

“Absolutely not.”

“ _What_ did you say?”

“You heard me, Princess,” Bellamy spat the word. “My instructions were to bring you _and only_ _you_ back to the palace with me. Not you and your little entourage of whoever wants in.”

“Monty and Jasper won’t leave without me, and I’m not returning to Tondc with them.” Clarke stood with her hands firmly on her hips. “So either they come with me or I don’t come at all.”

Bellamy grabbed her arm above the elbow, seeing a flicker of shock flash in her eyes. “We’ve been over this before. You don’t have a choice, no backing out now.”

“Now that the cat’s out of the bag,” she said, her voice dripping with frost, “I’ll remind you that I’m royalty. As crown princess and heir to the royal throne of Ark, I _command_ you to let Monty and Jasper join us.”

Bellamy’s jaw fell open. Her words hit him like a blow between the eyes. She pulled out of his grip.

“Are you out of your goddamn _mind?_ ”

“Like you said,” she tossed his own words back at him, “I don’t have a choice.”

With that, Clarke turned on her heels and limped her way back into camp, leaving Bellamy seething in her wake.

 

 

 

 


	9. Seeing Something New

“Clarke,” Jasper called out, a wide smile breaking on his face. Reaching up, he plucked a round red apple hanging from the tree above him. He polished it on the sleeve of his shirt – which, naturally, was filthy – and tossed it underhand to Clarke.

“Thanks,” she grinned back as Jasper threw another to Monty. The landscape of the forest had changed while they were walking, moving away from the taller, thicker trees of the deep woods into deciduous or flowering trees. Golden leaves were beginning to fall off the trees, and the apples found nearby were ripe for picking. For a flickering moment, Clarke thought about offering an apple to Bellamy as a peace offering. But, glancing over, she saw that he’d already picked one himself and was chewing it with his trademark scowl on his face.

It had been two days since Jasper and Monty crashed the party traveling to Station City. Two days since Clarke overruled Bellamy’s opposition and made the executive decision to let them join in. Since then, Bellamy had given a clear cold shoulder. He led them in the right direction and stood guard over their camps, but he didn’t speak unless spoken to – and even then, it was only in short, often one-word answers. It was evident that Bellamy didn’t like taking orders from Clarke, especially when they were real _royal orders_.

Looking at him, he practically had a gray raincloud brewing over his unhappy face. There was thunder in his step and lightning in his eyes. It made a part of Clarke want to keep far away, but another part wanted to get up in his face and slap him.

She fell into pace a few feet back, walking beside Jasper and Monty as usual. Since they were reunited, it almost felt like the old times, like nothing had changed. Like they were simply roaming to a new town, a new place to hide out, leaving no trace of them in their wake.

“Does Sergeant Grumpypants have any idea where he’s leading us?” Jasper shot Clarke a sideways look.

“I’d like to think so.” She walked along with an unsteady limp, still nursing her left leg. In a way, Clarke was lucky that the knife hadn’t been larger or hit an important vein. The wound could’ve used stitches, if they had a needle and thread, but it was healing surprisingly well over the past few days. It was still red and angry and hurt like a bitch when she walked on that leg, but she could bite through the pain and focus on bigger problems.

“I want to get a look at that precious map he keeps hiding,” Monty muttered. “Every time he takes it out he treats it like top-secret information. Like we can’t be trusted with finding our own way.”

“Yeah, Clarke, I don’t know how you could tolerate him before we got here.”

“Really, guys,” she said, “He’s not _that_ awful. He’s just… in a bad mood.”

Monty didn’t look convinced. “Perpetually?”

“No. He doesn’t know you two like I do, so he doesn’t know whether or not to trust you. Bellamy is protective like that. I mean, come on, he’s a _guard_.”

Jasper stared at Clarke like she’d grown a second head. “Why are you defending him?”

Clarke stopped. _Why_ am _I defending him?_ She hardly knew Bellamy, and the little she knew of him wasn’t necessarily flattering. Having seen his bad side, she ought to be the first to criticize him. Even though she knew that wasn’t the _only_ side of him – he could be loyal and loving when it came to Octavia, or even somewhat gentle after Clarke’s attack… _Whatever_. He was still overreacting and this cold shoulder had to be addressed.

“I’m not,” Clarke said halfheartedly, wincing as she lengthened her strides. She caught up to Bellamy, “Let’s have a chat.”

He kept walking, like he hadn’t heard her.

“Hey!” She cut him off, standing directly in front of him with arms crossed. “I’m talking to you.”

“Not in the mood, Princess.” His voice was a low, threatening growl.

“I don’t care. This silence thing isn’t working for me. I understand if you’re upset – I can handle upset – but right now you’re acting like a child.”

“Acting like a _child_?” Bellamy’s eyebrows raised at the audacity of Clarke’s statement.

“Oh, you can hear me now?”

“I don’t have to speak if I don’t want to. I’m entitled to keep my mouth shut.”

“What do you expect me to do? Apologize, for pulling the ‘I’m royalty’ card?” When he didn’t respond, she continued, “Oh, come on. It’s reality, Bellamy. Hell, I’ve been uprooted from the life I’ve fought so hard to keep for _ten years_ , the _least_ I can ask for is the company of my two best friends.”

“They’re a distraction.”

“Are you kidding me?”

She waited for him to come up with some lame-ass excuse, about how Jasper and Monty would just waste time and slow them down, or how specifically his instructions said to come alone. But what she got was, “I don’t do distractions.”

Clarke took a step forward, face fearsome. A ribbon of surprise flashed in his eyes. She was just inches away from Bellamy’s face, feeling his hot breath and watching his nostrils flare. If his eyes had been lightning before, now they were open flame.

“I’d suggest that you figure it out,” she spat.

“Maybe I will.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Clarke suddenly became aware of how close they were standing, so she pushed back abruptly. She ignored the shock that ran up her left leg. “Since I’ve got you talking now, I’d like to see the map.”

“Map?”

“Don’t play dumb, the map you keep in your pack. Am I allowed to see it?”

Bellamy didn’t know what to make of her interest but pulled his pack off his shoulder anyways. When he handed the scroll to Clarke with a sour face, Jasper and Monty crowded around her.

“Where are we?” She asked Bellamy.

He pointed to a series of tiny trees drawn into the map. “We’re somewhere in this forest, towards the eastern border. See, we passed those boulder landmarks a few hours ago.”

“Hey, Walden.” Jasper spotted a tiny labeled dot nearby Bellamy’s tree symbols. “We lived in Walden for a little while, remember?”

Monty’s face lit up, “Yeah, in the loft of those stables. We couldn’t have been much older than twelve or thirteen. Wow, that goes way back.”

Clarke nodded at the memory, “Is that the town where we went diving in the fountain to catch the coins at the bottom?”

“I remember. Or when Jasper ate those pastries from the garbage pile and got some sort of food poisoning?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jasper wrinkled his nose, “Tons of fun.”

“Walden can’t be more than a few miles from where we are now,” Monty pointed out. “Maybe we should stop and refuel there.”

“Good thinking,” said Clarke. “Wait, Walden’s located on the coast of the river, right? We could buy ourselves passage onto one of those riverboats, that’ll take us up to Station City in half the time.”

“No way,” Bellamy shut that down.

“Why not?”

“Remember what I said about doing this _ourselves_? As in, attracting as little attention as possible? That’s what the instructions said, and I might as well stick to it.”

“Well,” Clarke stood with her hands on her hips. “I think your instructions haven’t been very relevant lately. Come on, they left out a pretty big detail about who exactly I was. Besides, we’re already breaking the rules by having Monty and Jasper tag along.”

“You know how I feel about that…”

“Not gonna change. So why not take a day in Walden, rest and refuel, then ride the riverboat up?”

Bellamy brought his curled fingers up to his scowling face, proceeding to chew on his thumbnail. He seemed torn.

Clarke took a step forward and brought her voice down – not that Monty and Jasper wouldn’t be able to hear her, but whatever. “The sooner we make it back to Station City, the sooner I’m out of your hair and out of your life. The sooner you get Octavia back.”

He studied Clarke with one skeptical eyebrow raised, but she could tell that she’d sealed the deal from the look behind his eyes. “Fine. If that’s what it takes to get my sister out, then I’ll do it.”

“Good.” She handed back his map, waiting for him to reevaluate and point them in the new direction. Once they started marching again, she watched him roll up the map and slip it back into his pack. Clarke had won the battle but oddly enough didn’t feel any better for it.

“You know I’m right,” she told him, more to boost her own confidence than make a point.

“Whatever,” Bellamy grumbled, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “I _hate_ that you’re right.”

She shrugged. “Good.”

 

* * *

 

“Ani?” Octavia pushed aside the tin paneling of a door, entering the seamstress’s shop. It was early in the morning, from what she could tell; time was difficult in The Underworld, since they couldn’t see the sun or the moon. It was kept by a large brassy clock hanging above the town square, which – Maya had explained – was wound every morning by an old clocksmith with a glass eye.

Octavia had gotten ready quietly and slipped out of Maya’s home without waking her or her father. She was dressed head to toe in the mismatched garb typical of an “underdweller”: the overskirt of her palace shorn off above the knees and gathered in bunches at her hips, a soft leather bodice laced over top, fabric ties running up the length of her arms instead of sleeves, form-hugging leggings and a pair of patched-up boots that she’d gotten for cheap. Her bone-handle knife was tucked securely beneath the woven belt resting on her waist.

It was Octavia’s second day of work. Maya had woken Octavia early the morning after her arrival, bringing her to The Underworld’s best seamstress, a birdlike woman called Ani. Octavia had explained how she’d learned her sewing abilities from her mother – albeit, that was a very long time ago, and Octavia was mostly self-taught now. Ani appreciated the extra pair of hands.

“In the back here, girl,” her husky voice called out. Ani was already hunched over a pile of fabric, her long beak-like nose hovering just inches above the needle. Her hair was a bushy brown, threaded with gray that seemed appropriate considering the wrinkles around her eyes. “You’re late.”

“Late?” Octavia asked, “How could I be late? Most of the town hasn’t even stirred yet.”

“Rule number one: Don’t argue with your boss. Always remember that you are replaceable.” Ani spoke without taking her eyes off her sewing. From across the room, Octavia spotted the pair of other seamstresses watching her with wide eyes. She’d been introduced to them hastily but had embarrassingly forgotten their names. They were so quiet Octavia had to wonder if they could talk at all.

“Sorry Ani,” she grumbled, reaching for the blouse she’d been repairing yesterday. After seeing a few sample rows of stitches from Octavia, Ani had decided that she was good enough and assigned her a worn-out blouse to patch up. The material was light and tended to run, so Octavia was careful to take her time with the needle. She moved slowly.

Octavia sat across the table from the older seamstress, stealing a glimpse at her between stitches. Ani’s fingers moved with impressive speed and precision. In the lamplight, Octavia could see deep red scars lining Ani’s hands, either from burns or – more likely, now that she thought about it – lashes. _What could Ani have done to deserve those? Is that why she ran to The Underworld?_

“How long have you lived here?” Octavia raised the question. It took Ani a moment to realize that her new seamstress was speaking to her, and she finally looked up from her work.

“Many years. Many, many years.”

“Why here?”

Ani’s eyes grew hard, “You ask a lot of questions for a child so new to our world.”

“I’m simply curious,” Octavia admitted. “There’s so much about this place that I don’t know, and if fascinates me. That’s all.” She brought her gaze back down to her work, piercing the dusty cream-colored fabric with her needle.

Ani shifted in her seat, leaning back. “I was among the first to join in this colony. My husband and I were doing business for this aristocratic family in the capital. The son of the older gentlemen we were working for, he… he made unwanted advances towards me. When I spurned him, he accused my husband and I of stealing from his family and framed us with evidence. My hands received my punishment,” She splayed her fingers out, palms down and exposing her scars.

“My husband lost his temper when they touched me. He was young and rash, and he attacked a royal guard. That didn’t make things any better. I never saw him again, and I knew I never would. I was lost, out of work, and hopeless. Somehow, I found my way deep into the sewers, and came across others who felt much like I did.”

Sympathy welled up within Octavia’s throat. “Did you ever try to go back, above ground?”

Ani shook her head, “Why bother? My scars brand me a criminal no matter where I might go, and no one above would want to hire a criminal. Besides, the need is greater here underground. We have to make the best with what little we’ve got.”

“It may seem little to you, but I find it impressive that a place like this even survives, let alone _thrives_.”

“We work hard, each of us. That’s how you last in The Underworld: You find a way to contribute to our community. There’s no monarchy down here to sit on their thrones and oversee everything; we prefer to vote on the matters ourselves. Everything is hands on and hard work.”

“I can see that.” Octavia shifted the fabric of the blouse, rotating it to complete her stitches at an easier level. Her eyes wandered to the bandage she still wore on her arm, where Lincoln had instructed her to clean the wound and redress it. “Can I ask you one more question?”

Ani rolled her eyes, “Something tells me that you’ll ask it either way, whether I say yes or no.”

Octavia thought she heard giggles from the two silent other workers, and a quick glance in their direction found them suppressing guilty smiles. “Do you think you know just about everyone down here, in The Underworld?”

“I’d be shocked if I didn’t.”

“Okay, so there’s this healer that Maya took me too---”

“I believe I answered your _one more_ question,” Ani wore a smug look on her face.

“Please, Ani, his name is Lincoln---”

“I know what his name is,” Ani replied, eyes lowered. “And, naturally, you want to know more about him. Intriguing fellow, Lincoln of Trikru.”

“I’m just… curious.” Octavia couldn’t help the flush of red spreading across her cheeks. She let her long hair fall over her face to cover it.

“Lincoln’s a quiet one,” Ani began. “He keeps to himself. Lives on the edge of town, rarely goes out unless it’s late at night and much quieter. Most people here are a little afraid of him, to be honest.”

“Afraid, why?”

“He’s from Trikru.” She said as if that explained everything. “Trikru has been a sworn enemy of Ark for many years. Some people wonder where exactly Lincoln’s loyalties would lie.”

“He moved from Trikru for a better life,” Octavia defended him. “At least, that’s what he told me.”

“Lincoln talked to you? Why, then you already know him better than most underdwellers in this town.”

“He healed a wound on my arm.”

“Of course, he’s a healer.” Ani shrugged, “Though, I’ve always suspected that there’s more to that man than simply bandages and poultices.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, look at him. He’s built like one of those stone statues you’d find outside the palace. If that’s not the physique of a warrior, then I don’t know _what_ is.”

“You think he’s a fighter?” Octavia could see the reasoning behind that. “Then why hide away underground?”

“Octavia,” Ani’s eyes locked onto hers, “One thing you’ll learn about The Underworld is that it’s absolutely _crawling_ with fighters. And fighters don’t like to stay quiet for long.”

 

* * *

 

“I remember this,” Clarke said, a smile spreading across her features. She led the group across a stone bridge, short green moss littering the rocks and climbing up the sides. On the other end of the bridge, the dirt path became cobblestone, carrying them into the city of Walden.

“I do too,” Jasper agreed. “Jeez, it’s like this place hasn’t changed a bit.”

Bellamy lingered at the back of the party, on edge. He wasn’t happy with Clarke’s plan to travel through a busy city, and it wasn’t simply because his instructions told him not to: The attack at the pool had him worried about Clarke. She was trying her hardest to put on a tough face, he could see that, but her leg wound had weakened her. Every time she stumbled in the forest undergrowth his muscles tensed and ached to catch her. Of course, both Monty and Jasper were constantly flanking her like faithful pups, and the feelings between the two boys and Clarke’s guard weren’t exactly friendly.

Since it wasn’t a stop on his route from Station City, Bellamy had never been to Walden before. It was a rather large city, especially for lying on the edge of Ark. The streets were dense with all sorts of buildings, ranging from thatched-roof huts to brick structures several stories tall. The cobblestone streets grew more crowded the deeper they went into Walden, soon filling up with wagons and animals and a steady stream of people. Everything -- the height and span of the buildings, the crowds in the streets, the sights and sounds and smells – was so much larger than back in Tondc.

“Do you think that stable is still around, the one we lived in?” Monty asked.

“I bet it is,” Clarke answered. “If I remember correctly, then that’s not far from the river harbor. And we’ll want to head in that direction if we want to buy passage onto a boat.”

It was remarkable how the flicker of old memories brought a different life to Clarke’s face. Bellamy could see something had changed in her features, bringing back a vibrancy that he hadn’t seen before. Well, maybe once --- that evening around the campfire. “And how do you expect us to pay for that passage on a boat?”

“You’ve got that money pouch of yours,” Clarke wouldn’t take his tease. “I should know, because I stole it from you.”

“The only reason you were able to steal it was because I left it hanging on purpose. Don’t oversell yourself.”

“Ouch,” Monty muttered. “Bellamy, how about you go buy four seats on a river boat to Station City and the rest of us will go check out those stables.”

“Really? And I’m supposed to believe you won’t run off on me?”

“God, Bellamy, we’re not going to run off,” Clarke rolled her eyes. “You’re the one complaining about the safety of a boat trip. Here’s your chance to pick the safest ride.”

Bellamy folded his arms and rubbed two fingers between his eyebrows. Clarke was _infuriating_. And yet, how could he say no? Someone had to do it, and since Bellamy would be damned if he couldn’t regain _some_ control over this runaway mission. “Lead me to the harbor,” he said, “And then go find your stables. If I don’t see you at the docks in one hour, I’m calling on the guards stationed in this city to hunt you down and find you.”

“Good enough,” Clarke shrugged. The three led Bellamy down a series of squashed streets, each growing narrower and more twisting. When he emerged from the end of an alleyway, the cobblestones expanded along a series of docks. They followed the curve of a gray river beyond, littered with docked boats of all different sizes. The buildings out here were wooden and simpler than the stone structures of the deeper town, but it all carried the same energy as throughout the city.

“There,” Jasper pointed to his left, where the docks twisted around a corner. “The stable is that way.”

“I’d start asking around if I were you.” Clarke shot Bellamy a look over his shoulder and followed her boys to the stable, leaving Bellamy alone to find a boat.

By the time he was finished, he had asked six different sailors, ranging from moderately honorable to borderline scumbag. Bellamy settled on the finest man of the bunch, choosing him for his decent standards rather than his more-expensive charges. The sailor, a weathered older man with combed graying hair, pointed out his ship to Bellamy: It was a modest-sized ship, centered by one main mast and a single large sail.

“We’ll set sail tomorrow morning, early,” the sailor, Captain Quint, told Bellamy. “Meet here, at the docks. Bring half of the payment in the morning, and you can pay me the second half once we arrive at the docks closest to Station City.”

“How long should this trip take?”

“If we catch the right wind, we’ll reach the capital’s port by sundown.”

Bellamy left feeling better about the journey, until returning to the entrance to the docks, where he’d left Clarke, Jasper and Monty. Naturally, none of them could be found. Whipping around, he combed the crowded port for their familiar faces, hand unconsciously clasping the hilt of his sword beneath the corner of his cloak.

Remembering the direction they’d disappeared off towards, Bellamy marched away from the port and towards their stables. His eyes darted around left and right, something creeping up in his throat: Fear? Worry? _It’s just Clarke._

From far to his left, Bellamy heard that special sound of her laughter, and he could’ve sworn he’d imagined it. But when he turned towards the noise, he spotted his lost princess. Sunlight danced off her golden hair as she spun away from Jasper, having plucked a muffin from his grip and taking a bite from it. He swiped at her and she playfully darted behind Monty.

For a fleeting moment, Bellamy had the urge to storm up to Clarke and yell at her for not listening to him and returning to the docks. But something in her smile was so pure and all too rare, and he couldn’t shatter that. Instead, he approached slowly, unaware of the grin creeping onto his own face. “Passage reserved for us on a boat leaving tomorrow morning for Station City.”

“Well done, Bellamy,” Clarke said, the warmth still in her eyes. “Muffin?” She tossed Jasper’s treat to Bellamy before he’d gotten a chance to answer. Catching it, he received a scowl from Jasper, who made a move towards Clarke.

“Hey!” Clarke recoiled with a laugh before the lightness disappeared from her face. Bellamy noticed how she’d stepped too hard on her back leg, watching a jolt of pain twist Clarke’s features.

“Careful,” he cautioned, taking a step closer to her, but keeping an appropriate distance – especially with Jasper and Monty around. “We should probably get you off your feet for the evening, it’ll be getting dark soon.”

“There’s an inn just up the street,” Monty motioned over his shoulder, “What if we were to stay the night there?”

Bellamy gave another glance at Clarke, seeing how one bad step had paled her face and brought a sheen of sweat above her brow. She fought to cover it, but was failing. “Alright. Clarke, are you okay to walk?”

“I’m fine,” she said through gritted teeth, gripping Monty’s shoulder to straighten herself. “Let’s just get to that inn.”

 

* * *

 

Bellamy scraped the bottom of his wooden bowl, ladling up the last of his beef stew. The dish was surprisingly good – tender meat, hearty vegetables, a thick broth – but perhaps that was because his meals of the last week had consisted of hardtack and biscuits. He finished the hunk of fresh bread he’d been working on, swallowing it down with a swig of ale. He’d take regular old ale over that awful moonshine any day.

The four travelers were seated in the main hall of the inn, finishing their dinner before retiring to their rooms. A large fireplace cast a warm glow over them all, bringing life back into their weary eyes. Even Clarke seemed to have recovered a bit more, her large appetite impressing Bellamy. It was like seeing an entirely different Clarke.

He could only wonder if her return to the palace would snuff out that light in her eyes, or make it burn brighter.

“Finished yet, Bellamy?” Monty asked him, his voice tight and quiet. Apparently, Bellamy noticed, they were all done with their meals and waiting for him to finish. He noticed the stiff way Monty talked to him, still wary of Bellamy and how he would receive Clarke’s friends.

Taking one last gulp of ale, Bellamy wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I’m good. Ready to go upstairs?”

They rose from their seats, climbing the narrow wooden stairs that led to the inn’s second level. The hallways weren’t very wide, and they were illuminated by a handful of simple iron chandeliers casting candlelight on the wood-plank walls. Jasper led the way, eyes searching for the right numbers on the room doors.

“Here, 17 and 18.” He stopped in front of two identical doors across the hallway from each other. “They only had two rooms left so… we’ll have to divide up somehow.”

“Clarke, you can have 17 to yourself,” Monty offered. “We’ll share 18.”

Clarke shook her head, “Nice try, but I can handle a roommate. Bellamy can stay with me.”

Bellamy’s gut clenched, not expecting that. His eyes went wide. “Why me?”

“Well, for one thing, you _are_ supposed to be my guard, correct?” She had him there. “And I don’t think I really trust you with Jasper and Monty yet. The three of you spitfires all locked up in a small room together? No thank you.”

Jasper appraised Bellamy with skeptical eyes, “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Clarke?”

“I’ll be fine. Besides, I’m just across the hallway. Not far at all.”

Jasper still didn’t look convinced, but tossed Clarke the room’s key anyways. When she unlocked the door, the first thing Bellamy noticed was how small it was. Of course, he normally wouldn’t have thought twice about the size – coming from a modest background himself – but knowing he’d have to share it with Clarke, the _royal heir_ , made everything different. There was a wide shuttered window, a rickety writing desk, a set of drawers, a mirror and basin of water. And one bed.

“I can’t remember the last time I slept indoors,” Clarke admitted, making her way to the desk and tugging off her boots. A shadow of a memory crossed her face – probably something about her stable boy, from the looks of it – but she shook it away. “It’s… it’s been a while.”

“I can imagine.” Bellamy unbuckled his belt, removing his scabbard and pack. He tossed his cloak over a hook on the back of the door. When he turned around, he saw Clarke untangling her golden hair out of its messy braid, then splashing her face clean with some water. She caught his stare and he quickly looked away.

“So, umm,” he started awkwardly, “I guess I’m taking the floor, huh?”

“What?”

“Well, with your leg, you should have the bed. And I suppose it wouldn’t be… appropriate of me to…” _Goddammit, Bellamy, you’re a royal guard. Why the hell are you so flustered?_

Clarke looked down at the rough wooden floor. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor, Bellamy.”

“I’ve slept outside on the ground for the last week. It’ll be a step up.” He tried to force a halfhearted joke, but he knew the moment he said it that it fell flat.

“Seriously,” Clarke shook her head, “We’ll share the bed. Just… stay on your side, alright?”

Bellamy’s pace quickened. _Dammit, calm down. Not like it’s the first time you’ve shared a bed with a girl you hardly know._ “Fine, then.”

“Fine.” Clarke removed her belt and tugged back the bed’s covers. She slid underneath in her tunic and leggings, carefully moving her leg atop the lumpy mattress.

Bellamy stood awkwardly, not quite sure what to do. He tried to ignore the girl in the bed – _his_ bed – and went about his normal bedtime routine, or his routine on those occasions when he had a real bed. He crossed to the waterbasin, using the rag hanging next to it to sponge the dirt off his face. Watching his reflection in the mirror, he saw dark circles from lack of good sleep and messy, matted curls. He tried to finger-comb them, shaking out his hair when nothing else seemed to work. Finally, he tugged off his navy guardsman shirt, wiping the dirt clean from his upper body. He was bruised and sore but pleased to find himself largely unhurt from the rough journey.

From behind his form in the mirror, he noticed Clarke’s bright eyes watching him. When she looked away all too quickly, he thought he saw a splash of red dance across her cheeks. It almost made him laugh.

“Get some sleep, princess,” he said with something almost delicate in his voice. “You’ll need your rest. We’ll be at the capital this time tomorrow.”

“I know,” Clarke responded with sadness. No, maybe not sadness, but perhaps reluctance. Hesitance.

Bellamy climbed on top of the covers on the other side of the bed. The sheet was rough and stuffed with something that felt like straw, but who was he to complain?

“Really, Bell,” Clarke mumbled, drifting off to sleep. “Why bother pretending you’re a gentleman? We both know you’re not.”

The combination of her sassy words, sleepy voice, and use of “Bell” was enough to sway him. “Whatever,” he grumbled, getting up to slip underneath the covers.

They stayed on their opposite sides of the bed, a bed which suddenly felt too small for the both of them. Bellamy lay there rigid, staring at the ceiling, trying to ignore Clarke’s body heat or the way her blonde curls splayed out across her pillow and fell close to his. She shifted onto her side, facing away from him, and he listened to the sound of her slowing breathing. Just when he thought she might be asleep, he heard the soft flicker of her voice: “Goodnight, Bellamy.”

“Goodnight, Princess.”

 

 


	10. Of Rivers and Warriors

 

Octavia couldn’t sleep.

The room she shared with Maya was mostly quiet, except for her roommate’s soft steady breathing. And while her bed was little more than a few stuffed blankets over straw, it beat the bed she’d had in her prison cell.

But, as Octavia lay awake trying to sleep, she heard the sounds of Maya’s father rising. She couldn’t see what he was doing, hidden by the wall divider, but she made out his footsteps moving swiftly down the stairs to the first floor. Creeping over to the window, Octavia caught a glimpse of Vincent slipping out the front door and onto the barely-illuminated street.

Curiosity gnawed at Octavia’s stomach like a dog on a bone, so she rose and tugged on her boots. She held her breath when she passed Maya’s sleeping form, then made for the stairs. Once she’d reached the street, she could make out the town clock’s face: It was still the middle of the night. Which felt odd, since her internal clock – and her wide-awake senses – told it was anything _but_ the middle of the night.

Her boots moved in soft steps along the streets, careful to avoid any puddles or scrap metal that would make noise. From far up ahead, Octavia could squint and see Vincent’s silhouette slipping towards the outer edges of town. She followed, sticking to the shadows. She didn’t want to get caught while following someone else.

Reaching one of the most distant buildings in town, Octavia peered out from around the corner and watched Vincent start climbing the rock wall of the cavern. He moved with swift precision, as if lots of practice had shown him exactly where to put his hands and feet. He climbed upwards for a few minutes, until he was at least halfway to the cavern’s ceiling, then pulled himself into a half-hidden rock cave.

“What the hell?” Octavia muttered to herself, biting her lip then deciding to follow Vincent anyways. She approached the first foothold, lodging the toe of her boot on a small outcropping and reaching for a place to grab with her hand. Octavia was slow with her climbing, keeping her body flush against the cold stone and trying not to think about the potential fall below. She’d climbed trees and some smaller buildings in her youth, but it was difficult to compare that to scaling the slippery face of a cavern. Twice her foot missed the foothold, leaving her to scramble for a grip with wild fingers. Her nails ended up jagged and bloody and she could feel a throbbing pulse in each boot by the time she reached the top.

But, miraculously, she reached the top.

And when Octavia heaved herself over the edge, rolling into that hidden cave Vincent had entered, it’s wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t the _least_ bit graceful. She was panting and shivering, and every muscle in her body wanted to sink into ooze from exertion and relief. That’s when Octavia looked up.

The cave wasn’t large, but its walls were covered in scribbles, notes, and sketches. There was a single lantern balanced on a stone slab for a table. Flickering light illuminated the yellow eyes of the other people standing in that cave, and not a single one of them looked happy.

 “Octavia,” she recognized the voice as Wick’s, tinged with annoyance, “What are you doing here?”

“What are _you_ doing here?” She retaliated. The sheath of Wick’s bone blade dug into her side.

Vincent stepped forward from the shadows, realization on his face. “You followed me here? From the house, you followed me.”

“I was… curious.” She knew that was a lame response.

“This isn’t the time or place for curiosity, Octavia!” Vincent looked angry, but he was trying to hold back. He shook his head. “Maya and I let you into our home. We shared everything with you. And then you can’t let a man have his privacy?”

“Go back home, Octavia,” Wick said, gently but firmly. “Go to sleep.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s the middle of the night, you should be in bed.”

“No, it’s not, isn’t it?” Octavia took a risk. “The only reason it’s nighttime now is because that clock,” she pointed towards the town square, “That clock says so. But something tells me that _that clock_ isn’t exactly right, is it?”

She pressed on in their silence. “You see, if _I_ were having a secret meeting that I didn’t want anyone sneaking out to, I’d stop the clock – stop _time_ in The Underworld – and conduct it when everyone else is supposed to be sleeping.”

For a moment, all Octavia could hear was some distant dripping of cave water among the breathing of her companions. Then, from deep in the shadows, she heard, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Fine,” Wick rolled his eyes, not looking happy. “Every so often we… _play_ with the clock. Sometimes, it’s necessary. We needed a cover, and luckily the clocksmith is an easy man to bribe.”

Octavia folded her arms, “Why is it necessary? Why now?”

A tall, dark-skinned man with a dusting of a beard and goatee stepped forward, standing beside Wick. He addressed him in a hushed tone, “Is this the one you were talking about? The one from the palace?”

Wick nodded, “Octavia Blake, runaway.”

“No one just _runs away_ from the palace,” the man glanced over at Octavia, appraising her with critical eyes. It made her want to take a swing at him.

“I did,” she stuck her chin up. “I got out. And I’d like some answers.” _Maybe that’s a little bold,_ she thought, so she added, “Please.”

The man raised an eyebrow at Octavia, then broke into a laugh. This caught her off-guard. “Well, you sure have guts, don’t you? You scaled the side of a freaking _cliff_ on, what, a hunch? I’ll admit, no one’s gone that far before.” He stuck out his hand, a rough, calloused palm. “Nathan Miller, chief commander of the U.R.M.”

“U.R.M.?”

“The Underworld Resistance Militia,” Miller explained. “And you, Octavia Blake, just stumbled into one of our meetings.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke was warm. Clarke was dry. For the first time in a very long time, Clarke was sleeping _indoors_.

There weren’t any dreams or nightmares to stir her from her sleep. That alone was unusual. She’d grown used to vivid images in her sleep – reliving the news of her father’s death or her mother’s departure, the explosion that killed Vera Kane and just barely spared her, or other wicked fantasies that the more twisted parts of her brain would conjure up. Hell, she’d half-expected some awful nightmare with the attacker from the pool and his dripping knife hovering over her body.

But Clarke had slept just fine. Caught in the hazy gray-zone between sleep and consciousness, she curled her legs into herself, feeling the rustle of real blankets against her skin. Tendrils of her curly hair fanned out behind her and the spot underneath her head was warm and comforting. Her eyelids grew heavy again, and the slow rise and fall of her pillow nearly carried her back to sleep.

_Rise and fall of my… what?_

Clarke popped an eye open, coming to the very odd conclusion that her head wasn’t resting on her pillow, but Bellamy’s chest. Bellamy’s very warm, very _bare_ chest. She could hear his steady heartbeat beneath her ear, and something about that was both frightening and exhilarating. Raising her gaze a fraction of an inch, she took in the sight of his face: the curve of his eyelids and brow, the freckles across his cheeks, the subtle way his nose moved when he breathed. In her bleary drowsy state, Clarke found Bellamy beautiful.

She felt his body stir beneath hers, so she shut her eyes and feigned sleep again. His muscles relaxed as he woke up, then tensed suddenly at realizing who was sleeping _on top of him_. Clarke’s skin flashed when his hand rested on her bare shoulder, but then he carefully pushed Clarke off of him. She felt the mattress creak as Bellamy rose, leaving Clarke alone in an all too cold and empty bed.

Clarke squinted, opening half an eye. Sunlight slipped through the tiny cracks in the shutters, painting the room with slashes of butter-yellow light. They played across Bellamy’s physique, illuminating him in bits and pieces. He stood in front of the hanging mirror, running a hand over his face. Reaching for the basin, he splashed water through his hair and scrubbed it with a towel. The morning sunlight caught the stray droplets that ran down the corded muscles of his neck and back. Clarke drunk it all in. At first, she was watching him analytically, as an artist would study a subject: Taking in his scars and bruises, the way the light played off his bone structure and muscles, the shadow he cast on the opposite wall. But it became clear to Clarke, terrifyingly clear, that maybe she wasn’t just looking at Bellamy in that way. Maybe she was looking at him because she _wanted_ to.

Bellamy wiped off his head and tugged on his navy shirt, tucking it in at the waist. He crossed to the window and opened the shutters, flooding the room with light.

Clarke recoiled, not expecting that. “Jesus, Bellamy,” she grumbled, “Want to give me a heads-up next time?”

“Next time?” He did a half-ass job of covering up his smirk, clearly amused by the thought of there being a _next-time_ sharing a bed with Clarke. “How did you sleep, Princess?”

“Fine, I guess,” she mumbled, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. “Except someone stole all my covers.”

“Hey, I shared,” Bellamy teased, his eyes finally catching Clarke’s. They spoke all sorts of things that he wouldn’t say with words, and a part of Clarke wasn’t sure that she was up for listening. Rather suddenly, the room felt too small for the both of them.

Clarke roused herself and dressed in silence. She wiped her face clean and tied her hair back, pulling the sides to the back of her head and leaving most of her curls down for a change. She slid her knife back into the lining of her boot and grabbed her cloak, ready to leave. “Come on. Hopefully Jasper and Monty are awake.”

Bellamy was taking longer to suit up. He laced his chestplate over his shirt, tying it at the sides. The memory of the night before – and how they’d woken up in such an intimate position -- hung between the two of them. Neither wanted to break the silence.

Finally, Bellamy stood up. “About… last night, and…”

“Hey,” Clarke stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. Bellamy froze. “I got a full night’s sleep. That’s all I can really ask for, right?”

“Right,” he nodded, brow furrowing as he pushed open the door.

 

* * *

 

“There’s a resistance movement?”

“There’s _been_ a resistance movement,” Miller corrected, “One that’s been brewing literally right under the nose of the palace. Not everyone is happy with the way Ark has been run lately.”

“Is that how The Underworld has stayed hidden for as long as it has?” Octavia tried to piece it together.

“No. we’ve stayed hidden because we’ve been careful.” It was a female voice, coming from further in the cave. Octavia spotted the speaker: a girl with dark blonde hair and a headband low over her eyebrows. “And if you’ve in any way endangered that---”

“Easy, Harper,” Vincent said, sticking out a hand. “Maya trusts her, and so do I.”

“She shows up out of the blue, claiming to have outrun the palace guards. What if it’s a trap? What if she’s led them to our doorstep, and here we are welcoming her with open arms?”

“If it was a trap, then the guards would already be here,” Miller insisted.

“Harper has a point.” A shorter, fierce girl with a long braid down her back spoke up. She seemed vaguely familiar. “We’ve pledged our loyalty to the cause and proven it through years of diligence. This girl wanders in all of a sudden and we tell her everything?”

“You think I’m a traitor?” Octavia’s nostrils flared. She stepped forward.

“I think we know nothing about you.” Octavia recognized the girl from one of Maya’s quick introductions as Monroe. “And that’s a threat.”

“Got anything else you’d like to say about me?”

“What,” Monroe scoffed, “You’re going to fight me?”

“Come and see how much of a _threat_ I can---”

“Enough!” Octavia heard Miller’s shout before getting pulled back. She felt a large hand on her shoulder, and spun to see the stony face of Lincoln. _Lincoln_. “You’re with them?” she whispered.

“Harper’s right,” Miller said, his voice loud and carrying. “We’ve survived by hiding. But I say we’ve hidden for too long. In little more than a week Ark will be celebrating its greatest holiday: Unity Day.” He said this with a sneer, understanding some hidden irony in the name. “This is the day the U.R.M. will finally rise to the surface. This is the day we’ll storm the palace and depose the Chancellor.”

“Chancellor Jaha,” Octavia echoed. He was easily the most hated figure among the common people of Ark, and for plenty of good reasons too.

“Jaha has made Ark unlivable for people like us,” Wick explained to her. “If you’re poor or have a stain on your personal record, you’re scum in his eyes. People can’t get jobs or hold them, poverty is rising, and all of this has been getting worse the longer Jaha stays in power. We weren’t necessarily _fond_ of the monarchy, but anything’s got to be better than this.”

“Then what’s your plan?” Octavia asked. “I mean, you can’t overthrow a leader without someone else to put in power behind him.”

“We want representation,” Harper said, head held up, “Governing representation for the lower and working classes. And we’re willing to fight for it.”

Octavia thought about the life she’d come from, how she and Bellamy were always struggling to make ends meet, and she know where she stood. “I’m willing too.”

A smile flickered on Wick’s face. “I knew it. I knew it from the moment you grabbed that knife…”

Monroe looked skeptically at Miller, “Are you kidding me?”

“I am serious,” Octavia nodded. “I want to fight, I want to learn. I’ll join your cause.”

“Miller, you can’t be serious.”

“Are _you_ , Octavia Blake?” His intense eyes held her gaze. “This isn’t something to take lightly. If you pledge your allegiance with us now, then you will go into battle with us when we storm the castle. There’s not a lot of time to train you, so you’ll have to be strong.”

Octavia’s jaw was firm. “I am strong. And I’m in.”

Miller nodded slowly, folding his arms. “I don’t have time to train you myself. Someone else will have to do it.”

There was movement from behind Octavia. She turned, watching Lincoln step forward. He was completely silent.

Miller asked, “You’ll do it then, Lincoln?” Lincoln nodded yes. “Good, then. In a week, one of us will appraise you, Octavia, on your skills as a warrior and see where we’ll need you in our ranks. Until then, you’ll need to focus on your training.”

Octavia could feel the blood pulsing in her ears, and it filled her with a rush. For the first time in her life, she felt like she had _purpose_. She had a reason to take on the day, something to really fight for and work towards. It was refreshing.

As she walked over to Lincoln, she felt Wick’s grasp on her arm. He pulled her close, placing his lips near her ear and whispering. “Use your knife well, Octavia Blake, as a true warrior would. Don’t disappoint them, for all our sakes. But mostly yours. Don’t blow this chance.”

 

* * *

 

“Captain Quint.” Bellamy called out to the familiar man, recognizing him by his silvery hair and long brown coat. The captain gave a polite nod to the rest of Bellamy’s party.

“So these are your traveling companions,” he said, his voice as stiff as his posture. “My name is Captain Quint, and welcome to _The Phoenix_. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His eyes lingered longer on Clarke’s pretty face, and it did not go unnoticed by Bellamy.

“Thank you for allowing us space on your ship,” Clarke said without missing a beat. “I trust we’ll be in Station City by the end of the day?”

_God, sometimes she even sounds like a royal._

“Yes, ma’am, the good weather permitting.” Quint nodded and led the group up the narrow wooden gangplank onto the boat. There weren’t more than a half dozen sailors, each loading up the ship with various barrels and crates of cargo. A small cabin took up much of the space towards the stern, with a single door that they assumed belonged to the captain. _The Phoenix_ was nothing like the large military ships or luxury cruisers that Bellamy had seen from Station City’s port, but it would serve its purpose well for the day.

“I’ve never been on a boat before,” Jasper admitted, looking over the edge of the ship at the murky water below.

“Nothing to be afraid of, unless you get seasick.” Monty teased.

“Seasick?”

“Yeah, nauseous and stuff like that. Just give me a heads-up if you’re going to hurl, so that way I can steer you over the deck.”

Jasper looked a little green at the mere thought of it.

“There shouldn’t be any complications with this trip, right?” Bellamy asked Quint.

“None that we’re expecting, sir. We will be traveling up along the Trikru border, but we haven’t seen anything for weeks. They’re all concentrated up north anyways. Smooth sailing ahead, that’s what we’re hoping for.”

Bellamy nodded, not sure whether that put him at ease or not. He knew that relations between Ark and Trikru had been growing worse and worse, especially with Jaha putting pressure on Trikru over some Mount Weather territory that no one really cared about. Bellamy feared a war that would bring too many civilian deaths, a war that too few people were really invested in at all. But Quint sounded correct: Trikru was gathering their forces up north, towards the old battlefields from the last war they fought with Ark. The riverbanks should be empty.

Movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye, and Bellamy turned to see Clarke approaching the edge of the deck. He watched her from behind, as she placed her hands on the varnished wood and gazed down the river. For a fleeting moment, Bellamy wondered what it would be like if Quint and his crew knew exactly the precious cargo they were now carrying on their ship. He imagined there would be tighter security and a hell of a lot more fanfare surrounding the return of Ark’s lost princess. He couldn’t help but wonder if Clarke was thinking about it too.

When the sailors were finished loading the boat and preparing for departure, they untied the rigging running to the dock and pulled away from land. The wind picked up the single large sail, carrying them along a swift current running northwards. It wasn’t long before Bellamy had a crisp breeze on his face and the gray-green waters of the river surrounding him on all sides.

He crossed slowly to the edge, standing beside Clarke and peering out across the water like she was. They stood there quiet for a moment, listening to the lapping of water on the hull of the boat.

“What’s it like?” Clarke broke the silence with a quiet question.

“Hmm?”

“Station City. It’s been so long since I’ve been back.”

“I can’t imagine it’s changed that much. It’s big, and loud, and filled with more people than you could ever think would be in one place at one time. All sorts of people, but mostly good people, I suppose.” He thought of the ailing queen. “They’re still loyal to the Griffin family. Even with the Chancellor, they still love your mom.”

“I don’t even know her.” Clarke’s words were slow and dazed. “It’s strange to think about that. Ten years is a long time, and a person can change a lot in ten years.”

“She’s still your mother, _that_ hasn’t changed.”

“I was supposed to be dead, Bellamy,” Clarke reminded him. “That’s the version of events that everyone heard, including my mother. What if… what if that’s the version she wanted to hear? What if _that’s_ easier than me coming home?”

“Don’t say that.” He could see a strange shadow of pain on her face, and he hated it.

“Isn’t it easier to give up hope and move on than to hold out for some miracle for _ten years_?”

He took a deep breath, fingernails digging into the wood beneath his palms. “I don’t think she ever gave up hope.”

She couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. “What makes you believe that?”

“Her Majesty has been on her deathbed for such a long time. A person won’t last that long if they don’t have _some_ small hope to hold onto.”

Clarke’s breathing was shuddering, as if she had to work hard to get the air. For not the first time, Bellamy was reminded of how young she was and how much had changed over a handful of days. She was barely twenty-one, hardened by a world that forced her to hide, attacked and injured by the shadow of her dangerous future, ripped out of the only life she’d known, giving herself up for the good of the nation she’d been born to govern. How Clarke Griffin was keeping it all together was beyond him.

“On a much _pressing_ note,” she said, words dripping with sarcasm, “Do you know anything about Wells Jaha? What’s he like?”

“The Chancellor’s son?” Bellamy wrinkled his nose without thinking about it. “I suppose he’s a decent enough guy, from what I’ve heard. Keeps to himself, spends a lot of time alone or behind closed doors. Not really one to be out in the public eye.”

“I guess I’ll have to get used to that, the public eye.” She deadpanned. “I guess there’s a _lot_ I’ll have to get used to.”

“You can handle this,” He tried to reassure her, but it sounded superficial to his ears. “You were literally born to do this.”

“What if I can’t?” He could see the cracks in her stony façade again, cracks that he could imagine she hated to show. “I know _nothing_ about being queen, governing a kingdom, or even how to be a good wife. I couldn’t be _less_ prepared to fill the shoes I have to fill.”

“You’re a Griffin, you’ll manage somehow.” He placed his hand on her shoulder – _Am I allowed to do that?_ – and gave what he hoped was a comforting squeeze. Something about Clarke made him lose all confidence in his actions. “And, hey, I’ll be around, if you need any help.”

Her watery-blue eyes lit up. She hadn’t really thought about that before. “You mean it?”

“Sure,” Bellamy shrugged, “If you get lost in that big fancy castle of yours, or if you need a familiar face to talk to, I guess I’ll be there.”

“And you’d do that, for me?”

“Dammit, Clarke, you’re going to be queen. You could _command_ me to listen to your complaints and problems if you really wanted to.”

That elicited a laugh from her, a light sound that curled the corners of his lips into half a smile.

“I’m on your side, Princess.”

Her eyes poured sincerity when they locked with his. “Thank you,” she said softly, and he knew she meant every corner of those words.

 

* * *

 

Everything was different in Station City. It carried a sensation that she craved and didn’t know she’d been craving for a long time. She loved the noise and clamor of it all: the way the streets swelled with people and you could get lost in a crowd, the fact that you could walk down one block and be assaulted with a thousand sights and smells and sounds on your way there. Even the stones beneath her feet seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of the city. In something so large and encompassing, Raven was ready to get lost.

As soon as she’d a good night’s sleep.

It was amazing how sitting in a wagon for days could leave one feeling exhausted. After the caravan disbanded, Raven started wandering through the streets of Station City, letting herself get swept up in the size and scope of it all. In some ways, it felt like the first day of the rest of her life. She only wished she wasn’t so tired.

Raven roamed down a side street, passing huge wood and stone houses lining the road. Entirely by chance, she’d found her way to one of the wealthiest parts of Station City. She watched a lavish cart pull away from one of the manors, a large stack of traveling trunks lashed to the back of the carriage. Likely a rich fellow going on a vacation. Raven approached the carriage sheepishly, hoping to steal a moment.

The carriage slowed and she caught a glimpse through the window. Inside sat a well-to-do older gentleman across from whom she assumed were his wife and daughter. They were all dripping in luxurious fabrics and fine trimmings and jewels. Everything about them, from their clothes to their posture to the glare in their eyes, screamed _posh_.

“Excuse me?” Raven called out politely, flashing her winning smile. “Could you help me? I’m new to town, and I’ve gotten a little bit lost. Which way to the nearest inn?”

The gentleman wrinkled his nose, “New to town, you say? Where from? And why would you come here?”

“Tondc, sir,” Raven answered. “I’m a blacksmith, actually and---”

“A blacksmith!” The woman across from him spat, looking shocked. “A _girl_ blacksmith?”

“It’s unnatural,” the man sneered. “A girl like you won’t find that kind of work here, you’ll be out on the streets by the end of the year. That’s _exactly_ what this city needs: more homeless in the slums!”

He clicked his teeth, a sound that told the driver to resume moving. The carriage creaked then lumbered away, leaving Raven with her mouth hanging open. _How dare they?_ Hot, angry curse words boiled in Raven’s brain, thinking of a million creative things to call the snooty folks in their carriage. Her eyes settled on a stone in the road – the perfect kind to throw – when she remembered the traveling trunks and the manor they were leaving behind.

Checking the empty street all around her, Raven raced up the steps to the front door. She knocked, then ducked around the corner. No answer. She tried again, just to be certain that no one was left at home. Again, no servant or occupant came to the door. A devilish grin spread across Raven’s features.

Why pay for a room in an inn when she could take advantage of Mr. Snooty’s _hospitality_ for a little while?

Raven slipped around to the back of the house, keeping her body in the shadows of the hedges. There was a window about halfway around the back, hanging just a few feet off the ground. Raven paused, listening for any sounds that should concern her. Other than the constant din of the city, nothing seemed unusual. Creeping up to the window, she ran her long fingers over the windowsill. “Locked, of course,” she murmured to herself, inspecting the latch that kept it shut. It was tough metal, but there were tiny grooves all along it, like someone had already tried to pop it open with a blade. “Odd,” she wondered, then shrugged. “Not a problem for me.”

Reaching under the flap of her tunic, Raven fingered the pocket of her familiar old toolbelt. She extracted a long tool of twisted metal: a lockpick of her own design. Crouching to the level of the latch, she lined up her tool, calibrated it with a few twists and tugs, then expertly pried the latch apart.

“Yes,” she hissed to herself, tucking away the lockpick and sliding the windowpane up slowly. She was just about to duck her head inside when she heard the rustling from behind her.

“That’s very good, I have to admit.”

Raven nearly jumped right out of her skin. She reached for the knife she kept in her tunic, holding it out at arm’s length. There was a young man --- really not much older than a boy --- standing behind her with folded arms and an impressed look on his brow.

“Who are you?” Raven asked, voice tense.

“Easy there. I’m not from the house, I’m not here to turn you in.”

“If you scream, or call for attention, I swear to God I’ll---”

“It’s okay,” the man reassured her, hands up and exposed in a calming gesture. “My name is Sterling. What’s yours?”

She hesitated, “Raven.”

“Alright, Raven, I’ve been trying to get that window open for the last half hour before you showed up.”

She frowned, remembering the marks on the latch. _Duh._ “You were here?”

“Yeah I was. Took off when I heard you at the door, but I stuck around to see if you could figure it out. Where’d you get that fancy lockpick of yours?”

“This?” Raven pulled it out and looked at it as if it was nothing. “I made it myself. Custom design.”

“Seriously?” Sterling’s eyebrows shot up. “Why were you trying to get into this house anyways?”

“Honestly? I saw the owner leaving, and he was a real jackass to me when I bothered him with a question. I was just asking for directions to the closest inn, and he was nasty. So, this was sort of… my revenge.”

Sterling’s lips rose into a half-smile, nodding approvingly. “I like it.”

“How about you?”

“Oh you know, basic robbery. There’s something inside that I need, so I’m gonna take it.” Raven noticed the large black bags slung over Sterling’s shoulder. There was something else about him, something in his look. His clothes were patched and piecemeal, but impressive in their design. It made him look tougher than he probably was.

Sterling made a move like he was going to crawl through the window, but Raven blocked him. “Oh no, I don’t think so,” she said. “I got that window open -- not necessarily for you, but whatever -- so you’re going to have to be more specific than that if you want to past me.”

He huffed, choosing his words carefully. “You created that lockpick of yours… What else can you make?”

“I’m a blacksmith. Lots of things.”

“Tools?”

Raven rolled her eyes, as if that was the simplest thing he could ask her to make. “Of course.”

“What about… weapons?”

This got her interested. “Weapons?”

“You said you were looking for an inn. I’m guessing you’re new to Station City, then?”

Raven nodded.

“How about you let me through that window, then I can give you a job and a place to stay and we call it even?”

Raven cracked a smile, then realized that Sterling wasn’t kidding. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“Yeah.”

“But… it’s not even like I _did_ anything, really. I just opened a window.”

“If breaking that latch is _just_ opening a window to you, then I want to know what else you can build. Or break. You’ll be useful to our cause.”

“Cause?” _I knew there had to be a catch._

“It’s sort of…” He paused, fumbling for words. “Think of it like a big team. And we could really use someone with your sort of talents.”

Raven froze, mind whirring. On one hand, this sounded too good to be true. For all she knew, she was walking into a complete trap. On the other hand, everything in Sterling’s voice and face said sincere. Raven was usually good at reading people, though perhaps her faith in that had been shaken by the Finn incident. Still, she knew she’d regret it if she didn’t try.

“Okay,” she said, slowly. She wasn’t sure if this was a good or bad idea, but she was too interested to ignore his offer. Sterling grinned, nodding. A thousand questions rose in Raven’s brain, “Where do I need to go? Is it far from here?”

“Not really, I’ll take you there.”

She thought of the well-off neighborhood they were in now. “Must be a pretty nice place then, huh?”

There was something slippery in Sterling’s eyes, like he was skirting the truth. “Not… exactly.”

“Then where is it?” Raven’s brow furrowed.

Mischief lit up Sterling’s face, “How do you feel about going underground?”

 

* * *

 

Bellamy stood with his elbows propped up on the edge of the boat, leaning into the wind and spray. He watched the white foam rise and fall where the boat met the river, and how the light played off the surface and splintered into all the different colors. For the first time, Bellamy understood why some of the guard trainees would endure the harsher training to become navy sailors: there was something invigorating about being on the water.

He watched all sorts of unusual things float by. So he almost didn’t think anything was odd when he saw a round ivory object bobbing along, anchored to the spot by some unseen weight. The ship went sailing right past it. Turning his head to follow the object, Bellamy’s throat clenched when he recognized the curve and shadows of the object: it was a skull. Whether human or animal, he couldn’t tell. His stomach felt strange when he recalled having seen other objects -- skulls like that -- floating in the river, not having worried about them because they were far away. This one was very close to the boat.

Bellamy was just about to raise a question about it when he heard a commotion on the other side of the ship. Turning, he saw another boat -- little more than a rafting barge, really. It was approaching them at a rapid pace. There were five men with oars on either side of the new boat, plus plenty more on deck. The tribal appearances and menacing faces made it clear: This boat was from Trikru.

“River pirates.” Captain Quint swore under his breath, barking orders to the crew. Bellamy watched as they struggled to shift course, hoping to make it towards the side of the river they’d drifted away from. He now understood what the floating skulls were: Markers warning of Trikru water territory.

It was no use. The pirates were practically right on top of them in a handful fo minutes.

“What can we do?” Jasper marched up to the captain, flanked by Clarke and Monty. Their eyes were wild.

“I --- I don’t know,” Quint stammered, fruitlessly fussing with the wheel. “We’re caught in some bad current, there’s no way we can outrun them.”

“Then we fight,” Bellamy spoke in all seriousness. His arms were itching to put his training to use.

“We can try. But look at them. They’ve got us outnumbered by at least double. And my men aren’t fighters, Mr. Blake. They’re sailors.”

“Can we reason with them?” Clarke asked, trying to find the rational way out of this. “Maybe a bargain, something to get us out of here alive.”

“There’s no bargaining with Trikru pirates!” Quint cried, flustered. There was a horrible crunching sound as the Trikru ship rammed into the hull of _The Phoenix_ , splintering the outer wood of the second boat. Ropes went flying over onto _The Phoenix_ , quickly lashing the two boats together. Bellamy’s blood ran hot when he saw Trikru pirates spilling onto the ship’s deck, their faces grotesque with masks and war paint. They smashed and slashed their way through, swinging indiscriminately at cargo and crew. Bellamy wanted to charge himself, but he stayed back and kept Clarke in her peripheral vision. If there was one thing they couldn’t afford to lose, it was Clarke.

A pirate with dark blue paint over one eye settled his gaze on her and gave a nasty grin full of sharp teeth. “Clarke, move!” Bellamy called out, pushing her behind him. The pirate took this as a challenge, drawing a longsword at his waist. Bellamy pulled out his own sword, ready to clash blades when he was hit in the side with what felt like a cannon blast. Groaning, he rolled over to see a toppled barrel next to him, likely kicked aside in the mayhem. Panic thudded in his chest, and he dragged himself up into a crawl to find Clarke. He heard a scream, but it wasn’t her. Instead, Monty had met the slash of the pirate’s sword just below his hip, and he howled as he tried to hold his blood beneath his fingers.

“Monty!” Clarke cried, sounding just as anguished at the sight of it. Bellamy tried to run to them, only to be grabbed on each arm by a snarling pirate. Whipping his head around, he found Jasper in a similar situation, nose bloody and spitting venomous words. Bellamy watched in horror as the sword-armed pirate scooped up Clarke, holding tight to her wrists. She kicked and thrashed, but the ease with which he held her was almost comical. Bellamy roared.

“Em pleni!” A female voice shattered the chaos. A woman with authority, possibly their leader, strode onto the deck with her head held proud. She had sharp cheekbones and catlike features, with charcoal warpaint dripping down from her eyes. “Non mou.” Bellamy recognized the coarse words as Trigedaslang, the language of Trikru. His guard training had included the basics in the enemy’s tongue, and he’d excelled at it. He could understand that this woman was calling off the pirates.

The man holding Clarke growled. “Chit yu gaf, Onya?” _What do you want, Anya?_

“Daun ste pleni.” _That is enough._

“Dison laik ain.” He breathed, bloodthirstily leering over Clarke. The translation made Bellamy’s blood boil: _This one’s mine_.

“Patience, Tristan,” The woman – Anya – continued in her native tongue. “First we search them, search the ship, then you can have your spoils.”

Any pirate who wasn’t currently holding a prisoner began to roam the deck, peering into barrels and overturning crates, spilling the contents out onto the floor. One of them kicked Monty as he passed by. Clarke lost it, resuming her thrashing again at the sight of her broken friend. Tristan kept his firm grip on her, noticing for the first time the bandage on her left wrist. The fabric was slipping.

 _No_.

Bellamy was helpless, watching Tristan yank off the bandage and recognize the symbol on Clarke’s arm. The pirate’s dark eyes went wide at the sight of it. “Anya!”

She whipped her head around. Tristan thrusted Clarke’s arm up and out, exposing the mark for the whole deck to see.

“ _Jok_ ,” Anya swore. “I know what that mark is. That is the sign of an Arkian royal.”

Bellamy struggled, lunging forwards. His defensive reaction caught Anya’s attention.

“You, girl,” Anya called out in Arkian tongue, allowing them to understand. “What is that sign on your arm?” Clarke, wisely, kept her mouth shut and her chin up. Anya wasn’t happy. She pressed on, yelling, “Is that not the mark of a royal?”

A gasp came from the remaining captives of Quint’s crew. The captain stared up at Clarke’s wrist with enormous, albeit terrified, eyes. “The lost princess… she lives?”

“Princess?” Anya repeated slowly, turning back to Clarke.

“Please,” Clarke begged, stealing a glimpse at her confined friends and Monty crumpled on the deck. When her eyes met Bellamy’s, every inch of his body ached to run to her. “Spare us, please. What do you want from us? Money? Goods?”

Anya shook her head, looking all too serene. “Oh no, Princess. Our _heda_ will be pleased to know we’ve captured the long-lost princess of Ark.”

Clarke was frantic now. “Please, I’ll go with you! I’ll go with you to your _heda_ , just spare my friends. Spare the crew, please!”

“You think we’re going to negotiate?” Anya scoffed. “You’re our prisoner now. There will be no negotiating.” She turned on her heel, barking orders in Trigedaslang. “Bring the girl, and her friends. Don’t forget the wounded one. Take them to the Commander.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. A Game of Negotiation

The path they traveled along was worn and dirt, cleared by the footsteps of a thousand marches before. All around them, the forest seemed wilder and more fearsome, as though it wasn’t a continuation of the same woods in Ark. Clarke walked with her head raised, trying to feign the pride she should be carrying as a royal. Those Trikru pirates could bind her hands and force her on a march to their capital, but they wouldn’t take her dignity.

Of course, on the inside, Clarke was screaming. She’d gotten careless. She wanted to punish herself for going against Bellamy’s instructions and not sticking to a quieter route, but she knew she really couldn’t blame anyone. This wasn’t something anyone would’ve predicted. And that was killing her.

Her hands were pulled behind her back with rough rope ties, and that menacing Tristan kept prodding her forward with the butt of his spear. To one side, Jasper hobbled along with a dazed expression, the skin under his nose caked with dried blood. To the other, Bellamy marched with pure fury in his eyes. There were two pirates with him, one at each shoulder, and a blade hovering by his neck just in case. He looked positively murderous. Clarke stole a sideways glance behind her. A thickly-tattooed pirate had Monty’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, her injured friend dragging along behind him limply. His head would roll semiconsciously, and occasionally she could hear him moan in pain.

Tristan jabbed her in the ribs with his spear’s shaft, hissing. “Keep your head forward, _branwoda_.” Clarke couldn’t understand the Trigedaslang term, but she inferred that it wasn’t a pleasant term from Tristan’s sneer.

They marched until the sun hung high overhead in the sky. Clarke was used to walking long days from the rest of their journey, but this was grueling. The pirates moved at a fast pace through winding trails and over rough terrain. Her leg had gone from a throbbing ache to a full jolting pain, and Clarke was wincing with every step. They stopped for a break only once, to drink. The pirates shared waterskins while their prisoners watched, sweat beading on their faces.

“We’re almost there,” Tristan finally growled to Clarke, sounding all too excited.

“Where?” She spoke for the first time in hours. Her voice was hoarse and cracked from thirst.

The way he said the word was almost reverent: “Polis.”

As he spoke, their party reached the top of the grassy hill they’d been climbing for the last half-hour. Coming over the peak, Clarke looked down into a sweeping valley framed by rough forested hills. A vast sprawl of odd buildings filled the clearing, consisting of log houses, thatched huts and hardy skin tents. Scattered throughout were older, crumbling stone structures, remaining from a different era of long-ago Trikru. Many of the newer buildings were surprisingly complex, with several stories and a maze of hanging bridges connecting important ones together. The valley was lit with the glow of outdoor firepits and torches, and Clarke could hear the roar of the city from all the way above it.

“Polis,” she breathed back, taking in the capital city. In the heart of it all stood an impressive stone complex, tendrils of mossy green lacing it like a spiderweb. It commanded a presence unlike the other buildings; Clarke suspected this was their destination.

“ _Gyon au_ ,” Anya barked from the front of the pack, and they resumed their march. Clarke limped down the hill’s path in shallow, hesitant steps, fighting to keep steady footing with her bad leg. Three times she stumbled, sending rocks underfoot rolling down the mound. She tried to ignore the way Bellamy flinched for her each time she faltered, knowing that they were both entirely helpless.

When they reached the bottom of the hill they stood outside a massive wooden wall. All Anya had to do was glanced upwards at the mounted guards and they began cranking a giant wheel, opening the doors. Chills ran down Clarke’s spine as she entered the city, her nerves crackling like ice.

She wasn’t expecting the suffocating silence when they walked down the center street through Polis. All around her Trikru people stopped and stared with wide eyes at the foreigners in their city. Clarke swallowed the trembling lump in her throat. These people looked different – and different was scary – but not all of them seemed _bad_. She saw women and children with dark shadows under their eyes or hollows in their cheeks. She saw men with mutilated bodies, the cast-off warriors from a different time. It reminded her of Trikru’s past: A nation that had been at war with another kingdom at almost any given time for a century. A nation that too-often chose battles and bloodshed over diplomacy for peace out of pride, at the expense of their common people. A nation ravaged by war and its costly effects.

She could almost feel sympathy for these people. Until the silence came to an end.

The shouting came first. Harsh, guttural cries in a tongue that Clarke couldn’t understand, but she could see the hatred in their eyes. To them, Ark was an enemy that was goading war. Spit flew from their mouths and they threw their bodies out towards the prisoners as they screamed passionately in hate. It was overwhelming to say the least. Some even started to throw things – chunks of dirt, rocks, garbage – until too many hurled items started hitting the pirates and they hissed a warning to the crowds. Clarke forced herself to look down at the streets instead, tears stinging behind her eyes. She didn’t know these people. She hadn’t done anything to invoke their animosity, other than come from Ark. And they didn’t even know she was a royal.

When the growing crowds had long-since grown unbearable, they emerged into the courtyard surrounding the massive center building. Pits of fire burned all around, carrying the aroma of heady incense in the air. The archway of the stone building was decorated with a towering arrangement of bones, topped with human skulls. It was like approaching the gate to Hell.

“What is this place?” Bellamy said, his voice thick with horror and apprehension.

Anya didn’t turn to face him but answered anyways. “This is where you will meet The Commander."

 

* * *

 

“But you’re supposed to train me!” Octavia lashed out at Lincoln with wild eyes. The first thing she’d done that morning, after returning from the U.R.M.’s meeting, was go to Ani and leave her job. She felt awful for bailing after two days, but she explained how she was to train for the militia. Ani understood, with much skepticism, but let Octavia walk away. Then she’d gone to find Lincoln.

He was exactly where she knew he’d be: in his cave dwelling, alone. And though she’d come ready, armed with her bone knife and a fighting spirit, he refused to do anything.

“Miller is too idealistic,” Lincoln insisted. “There’s no way you’ll be ready in time to join us. You’ll only get yourself killed if they send you up with us. Trust me, I’ll be doing you a favor.”

“I don’t _think_ so,” she spat, not expecting such resistance from him. “Besides, you volunteered.”

“Only to save someone else from wasting their time.” He busied himself with other tasks, straightening the various healing supplies filling his cave, looking everywhere else except at Octavia.

“I’m _not_ a waste of their time,” she said, “Or yours.”

“You’re new. You think you’re tougher than you are.” His words were harsh, but something in his voice betrayed him. It sounded strained, forced. “You’ll never be a warrior.”

That was all it took. Octavia’s blood boiled, in typical Blake fashion. She saw Lincoln standing with his back to her, unawares. Taking two silent steps forward, she whipped her arm around him in a flash and pressed her blade to his neck, holding it there. Lincoln remained stony still.

“Someone would see that knife coming,” he said, his voice completely casual. “Hold another smaller blade in your other hand, in case they do this.” Just as quickly as Octavia had reached him, he spun in place, now facing her. She tracked him with her knife. “That way, you take that second blade and have it ready by his chest. Here.” He grabbed her fist and dragged it up where the blade would go.

Octavia didn’t bother hiding the confusion in her face. Didn’t he just tell her he wouldn’t train her?

“You really want to go down this road?” he asked, almost impressed. “Dedication, that’s good.”

“Wait, that was a _test_?”

“Most respectful people would’ve given up the first few times I said no. The most stubborn would’ve kept arguing, but you went straight into action to prove yourself. That’s not a bad start.”

Octavia pulled away. “You used me, and my emotions.”

“I needed to see how badly you wanted this.” Lincoln spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “And now it’s clear to me that you really _do_ want this.”

“I’m sick of feeling weak. All my life I’ve been dependent on other people, and when I’ve made decisions for myself they’re always based on others. I want to be my own strong person, for _one_ time in my life.”

“Keep that passion,” he instructed. “Use it to build yourself up, but not distract you or hold you back. Keep it as fuel, not baggage.”

“Fuel, not baggage.” She repeated him, nodding. “How is this going to work?”

“There’s three parts to becoming a warrior.” Lincoln explained, unlocking a part of himself that Octavia suspected he hadn’t brought to the surface in a very long time. “There’s physical, mental, and combat training. Combat will combine both of the other elements, so that comes last. Those who rush to combat too soon will be the first to get slaughtered.” He didn’t mince words or sugarcoat. “We don’t have much time, so you’ll have to work harder and really focus. Understand?”

“Yes,” Octavia said, ready to go. She followed Lincoln as he led her outside the cave and to the left, facing the rock wall of The Underworld’s cavern.

Lincoln pointed high up on the rock face. “Up there is a small ledge, you’ll see it marked with large scratches. You’re going to climb up to that point.”

Octavia’s stomach sank to her feet. She expected physical training to be something like running laps or lifting heavy weights, not scaling the side of a rock face that high up. The ledge was just a few feet away from the cavern’s ceiling.

“How am I supposed to reach that?”

“You climbed your way into our meeting. Surely you can do it again.”

“Yeah, but that’s because I watched Vincent and followed his steps exactly. I can’t even see any good footholds.”

“That’s because you’re not _looking_.” Lincoln folded his arms across his wide chest. “How are you supposed to become a warrior if you doubt yourself before you even get started?”

Octavia stared at Lincoln’s stony face, trying to read him. Her eyes locked onto his dark gaze. All of a sudden, she felt a strange sort of trust in him, like she somehow knew he wouldn’t let her fall. Like she knew he wouldn’t send her up to that ledge if he wasn’t _certain_ that she could make it. A layer of hidden encouragement in his eyes.

“Watch me,” she hissed at him, taking his challenge. She stood inches from the rock, looking up the face at the shadows that marked a hand or foothold. Squaring herself up, she mentally wiped herself of her fears and doubts, grabbed the first grips on the cool stone, and began to climb.

 

* * *

 

As Raven followed behind Sterling, walking down the pathway into The Underworld, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. If she’d thought that Station City _above_ ground was impressive, then she was absolutely floored by the city beneath it.

“Kind of cool, huh?” Sterling said nonchalantly, watching how her eyes had widened to the size of saucers.

“ _Kind of cool_? This is crazy! Structurally speaking, this cave is impressive by itself. But you put a whole colony underneath it.” Her analytical gaze flitted over the buildings she passed by, mentally breaking down the structures to see how they were designed and constructed. “Interesting choice of materials, but somehow it totally works.”

“Come on,” Sterling beckoned towards a particular building on his left. “There’s someone you should meet.” He pushed aside the door and she followed in.

Raven had lived in Tondc her entire life. She’d only worked for Ridley, and while his blacksmith shop couldn’t necessarily pass off as a _workshop_ , she certainly knew what real workshops looked like. This one, however, was beyond her imagination. From wall to wall, ceiling to floor, it was filled almost entirely with metal. She recognized steel, iron, copper, and brass in her first three steps into the cluttered room. She recognized all kinds of tools, strange appliances, and – oddly enough – weapons. Deep in the back of the workshop, she saw flying sparks and heard the distinctive clattering of forge welding. It completed her mind’s image of a perfect workshop. To her, this was one big playground.

“Hey, Wick!” Sterling called to the welder in the back. He waved his arms to get his attention. “I’ve got someone here for you.”

The welder rose up, wearing a face protection mask with ridiculous lenses that gave him a buglike face. When he removed it, his eyes were surprisingly similar to the mask: open too wide with a dumbstruck face. “Who… are… you?”

Raven hadn’t been expecting to make such an impression. “Raven Reyes. I’m here for a job.”

“You’re new, aren’t you? I definitely haven’t seen you before. Did you come with Octavia or something?”

“Who’s Octavia?”

“I guess not.” He pulled the mask from his head, then stuck out a hand to shake. His palms were rough and calloused, not unlike hers. “Kyle Wick, engineer.”

“Engineer?” She snorted. “You look like a blacksmith.”

“I suppose the technical term would be a metalsmith, but I think I’ve done enough work in structural design and urban building to call myself an engineer.”

Raven shrugged. “Well, I haven’t, so I call myself a blacksmith.”

“A female blacksmith?” His eyebrows rose. “That’s something I’ve never seen before.” Raven’s glare gave him pause, so he fumbled with his words. “I mean, not that there’s anything _wrong_ with that, it’s just--- you know --- that’s---- rare.”

“Damn straight.” Raven tilted her chin, sizing up this Kyle Wick. He was considerably taller than her – not hard to do, at her short height – with floppy hair that hovered somewhere between gold and brown. A shadow of a moustache dusted over his lips, like he couldn’t decide whether to grow one or not. He wasn’t exactly what you’d call _intimidating_.

Raven, on the other hand, liked to think she was.

In the awkward silence, Sterling shuffled his feet. “I’m gonna, umm, let you take over now, Wick.” He gave a small nod to Wick and a smile to Raven before booking it out of the workshop.

Wick gathered himself. “So, why exactly did Sterling send you to me?”

“He said something along the way about weapons.” She floated her fingers along Wick’s work table, feeling the familiar sensation of fine metal dust coating her fingertips. “I think he wants me to build some, God only knows why.”

“A hidden place like this… we need weapons.”

“I get that. Not really sure what kind of weapons he’s talking about. I mean, the kid saw me with a simple lockpick and suddenly he was sold on me coming to see you.”

Wick cleared a space on his work table, then unrolled a length of rough paper. He rummaged through an overflowing toolbox for a grease pencil. “Are you a designer, or a creator?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

He rolled his eyes, “Are you all ideas, or application?”

“I build things. That’s what I do. So… application?”

“Good,” he began to sketch some shapes onto the paper. “Honestly, I’m better with the designing and drafting rather than the actual building part. Years of practice, I suppose, makes that my comfort zone. But the two of us working together,” he gave a goofy grin, “We could make a good team.”

Raven wasn’t so sure. “Slow down, there. I typically work alone.”

“Not anymore.”

She ignored that, craning her neck to get a better look at his sketch. “What are you drawing?”

“Sterling suggested that you work on weapons? It was a smart call. We can use need you. I’m drafting up a design, then you’ll figure out how to make it.” When he looked up, there was teasing in his eyes. “Can you handle that?”

“Of course,” Raven bluffed, knowing it was a dumb move considering she had _zero_ idea what the design was. “Except… what _kind_ of weapon?”

“Bombs.”

 

* * *

 

Each one of Clarke’s footsteps were heavy, falling like the _thud_ of an execution drum. The moment she passed under that skeletal archway into the Commander’s fortress, she felt the ominous presence of death. It was like walking through a hallowed graveyard and feeling the spirits of the dead.

They entered a small dark hallway lit dimly with weak torchlight. The pirates were stopped by a new set of Trikru guards, even more fearsome in appearance than their capturers. Another woman led these guards. Her dark skin blended in with the shadowy surroundings, leaving the whites of her eyes and her snarling teeth all too bright.

“ _Pat emo daun_ ,” she barked to her subordinates, and they began to search the prisoners once again. Clarke felt rough hands comb her body, wincing when they pressed all too hard on her bad leg. To her left, Monty leaned against the wall, his face shiny with sweat. He panted, then fought to stand up on his own. Clarke could feel her heart breaking.

When they were finished, these new guards took over from the pirates and led the prisoners onward. Clarke noticed how the only pirate to join them was Anya. In the chilling halls of this fortress, walking beside the new Trikru warriors, Anya didn’t look nearly as intimidating as before. Not that it made any difference. It was like comparing a cougar to a grizzly bear: different, but ultimately both terrifying.

They reached a pair of doors at the end of the hallway, pushing them open to enter the Commander’s chamber. From the sheer size of it, Clarke imagined that it consumed most of the space in the stone fortress. Underfoot there ran a long rug made from animal skins, the different creatures blurring together into one patchwork piece of fur. Thick candles dripped wax onto the stone floor and the scent of incense was stronger in here than it had been outside. At the far end of the room was a large wooden throne, branches twisting up the back as if it’d grown straight out of the ground. And reclining back in that throne was… not at all what Clarke had expected.

It was a girl who couldn’t have been much older than Clarke herself. Her skin was tanned and her hair was dark and braided at the top of her head. Black warpaint dripped from her eyes, fanning out like wings across her impassive face, and she sat casually rotating a knife between her fingers.

“So you’re the one who wears the mark of a royal on her wrist.” The Commander spoke lethargically. “What do you call yourself?”

Clarke held her head high and mouth shut. She became aware of the Trikru guards stepping back into the shadows, no doubt still watching her from the sidelines. Their leader had taken her place beside the commander’s throne, glaring daggers at Clarke.

“Your silence lends you no dignity here,” The Commander said, bringing her gaze off the knife in her hands and onto Clarke.

Her companion snarled under her breath, “ _Teik ai frag em op en dison laik odon_.” She looked ready to kill.

“ _Shof op, Indra._ ” The Commander silenced Indra. She raised her chin and addressed her prisoners. “Ten years ago, just after the assassination of Ark’s king, his daughter was supposedly killed in a bombing attack. The body was never found. Her name was Clarissa.”

Clarke’s face went slack at hearing the details so clearly from Trikru’s Commander. She was dumbstruck.

The Commander smirked. “You underestimate us and our knowledge. One must always educate themselves on their enemy, if they are to defeat them in battle. We know much of your Ark’s history.” Her posture oozed ease and confidence, like she didn’t have a care in the world. “So, what do you call yourself?”

“Clarke.” She finally spoke, hating how small her voice sounded.

“How similar to Clarissa. Is that you?”

Seeing no other option, Clarke was forced to nod yes.

“Royalty.” The Commander nodded slowly. “Well, then, Clarke, since we are both royals of our own sort, you may call me Lexa.”

“Please let us go, Lexa.” Clarke began. She made the mistake of taking a step forwards, and she saw the shadows ripple with guards ready to pounce on her if she took another. “My friends and I were passing on the river, through neutral territory---”

“You crossed into Trikru waters.” Anya, the pirate captain, spoke up from behind Clarke. “The moment you entered our territory, we interpreted that as an invasion. So we responded accordingly.”

“Lexa, Commander, please. I’m trying to get home to what little I have left, to come out of hiding after ten years. We didn’t mean any acts of invasion.”

“You think because you are of royal blood that I will let you go?” Lexa scoffed haughtily. “Your royal blood has spared your life, but not your freedom.”

“Then what about her friends?” Indra said, hand already on her weapon. “They bear no royal mark, they are of use to us.” She squared her shoulders and called to her guards in the shadows, “ _Frag emo op!_ ” They moved in to strike.

Lexa held up her hand in a silent ‘stop’ gesture and they froze. She pointed one finger to her side and beckoned, a smaller Trikru man approaching with a tray bearing a goblet, a bottle, and other ingredients. Lexa waited with raised brows until the servant began fixing her a drink, then spoke, “There will be no bloodshed staining these floors unless it is unavoidable. We are not savages, after all.”

Clarke couldn’t believe this Lexa. She couldn’t pin her down. She watched as the Commander reclined, waiting for her drink to be prepared, staring down the four prisoners at her feet. Looking at them as though they were animals, all beneath her. Except, perhaps, for Clarke.

Lexa reached for her goblet, bringing it to her lips when Monty’s voice croaked out, “I wouldn’t drink that.”

“What did you say?” Lexa’s voice was cold. The servant beside her took two steps backwards with a confused look on his face.

Monty was doubled over, hunched on the floor. Blood was thick and clotted beneath his fingers, but there was still life left in him. He raised his head to speak again. “I wouldn’t drink that, if I were you.”

“And why not?”

“Because I know what water hemlock looks like. I know it’s toxic, and he just put it into your drink.”

Clarke’s jaw fell open. Even in Monty’s semi-conscious state, he could still recognize plants like _that_. He’d always been smart – the smartest of the three friends – but this was flat-out brilliant. Indra stepped forward and grabbed the goblet from her Commander’s hand, drinking a sip to prove Monty wrong. She spit it out the moment it hit her tongue. “Poison,” Indra hissed, turning on the servant. He was already halfway to the door when Lexa’s knife caught him in the back, sending him dropping to the ground like a fallen branch.

Lexa reached for the servant’s tray, inspecting the ingredients that remained. Of them, she held up a sprig of hemlock root, examining the highly-toxic plant. “Your companion has a remarkable knowledge of poisonous plants, Clarke of Ark. He would be very useful in the company of a royal. It’s a dangerous life we lead.”

“He needs a doctor,” Clarke pressed, seeing how pale Monty had grown. “He’ll bleed out.”

“He won’t die. Not yet.” Lexa spoke with chilling certainty.

Clarke felt completely hopeless. Time was running out for Monty, and she was running out of options. What she needed, more than anything right now, was a bargaining chip.

“Trikru has been at war for too long, Lexa.” She tried to command the same authority in her voice that the Commander did. “Look around. Your people are worn and broken, you can see it in their faces, in the streets. For the last century, Trikru has cared more about fighting other nations than the general wellbeing of their own people.”

“You speak too boldly,” Indra growled, but Lexa let Clarke continue.

“If you let me return to Ark, I will be crowned queen before the end of the month. You release me, and my friends, and I will personally guarantee that – as queen – I will keep Ark out of war with Trikru. You give me my freedom, I give you your nation’s peace.”

The silence that followed was suffocating until Lexa finally broke it. “That is a big promise to make, coming from a young girl like yourself.”

“From one young girl to another.”

“And what makes you think that Trikru cannot better guarantee longstanding peace by defeating Ark?”

“The nations are too well-matched for each other. There will be bloodshed, and nothing _but_ bloodshed for months, if not years. Wouldn’t you rather be remembered as the Commander who saved thousands – _millions_ – of her people’s lives by choosing peace over war?”

Clarke could practically see the wheels turning in Lexa’s mind as she weighed her options. “And you could guarantee this peace?”

“As queen, I could.” She knew she was being presumptuous, but with Monty at the door of death, she had to take the risk.

Lexa rose out of her throne, slow and imposing in presence. “I see much potential in you, Clarke of Ark. I can see much of myself in you, even. You will make a strong leader one day. I only hope it is for the better of both nations.” Her green eyes gleamed with cool authority as she said, “I will agree to your proposal, trading your freedom for a guarantee of no more war between Trikru and Ark.”

It took all of Clarke’s strength not to slump to her knees upon hearing that, a wave of relief washing over her. She caught Bellamy’s gaze, and even he looked impressed at how Clarke had managed to pull that off.

“But I have a condition to make clear.”

Clarke’s head snapped back up.

“As a sort of… _insurance_ , to make certain that you hold up your end of the deal as well as I do mine, there is a condition.” Something shifted in Lexa’s eyes, hardening until they were almost steely. A chill ran down Clarke’s spine.

“Only three of you will be allowed to leave Polis and return to Ark. One of you must stay behind.”

 


	12. Aftermath

“One of you must stay behind.”

The beating of Clarke’s heart sounded hollow to her own ears. It was like getting hit square between the eyes, and the dizzy feeling that follows afterwards. Her brain fought to wrap around Lexa’s decree, and she knew that no matter how she looked at it, it wasn’t pretty.

“You can’t be serious,” Bellamy shook his head fast, his dark eyes wide and expressive. Clarke noticed the way his nostrils flared and fingers curled into fists.

“Of course I am.” Lexa spoke with total calm and control, her voice like a smooth sheet of ice. “I need a way to hold Clarke to her side of the deal, and _that_ is how I will do it.”

Monty gave a groan and Clarke couldn’t hold back any longer. Her feet finally uprooted themselves as she ran to Monty’s side, dropping next to her friend. She was aware of how the guards were ready to spring at her, but Lexa held them back with raised hand. Gently shifting Monty to his other side, Clarke saw the dark stain just above his hip. The river pirates had crudely bandaged his wound, doing so to keep him alive long enough to bring him to Polis. Clarke was certain he’d need stitches and a proper dressing.

“Clarke,” Lexa’s voice snapped her back to the present. “A decision must be made.”

She felt a hand grip her shoulder, large and comforting. Bellamy’s face hovered above hers, pain – a completely different kind than Monty’s – etched in his features.

“I’ll do it, Clarke,” he said, keeping his voice quiet. “I can stay behind.”

She shook her head, adamant. “No. You have your sister. You have Octavia.”

“It wouldn’t be forever,” he said solemnly, before raising his voice. “Lexa, how long would you keep the volunteer with you?”

“That is _Commander_ to you,” she said in a firm tone. “And they would stay until peace can be guaranteed, through public proclamation or a written doctrine.”

“You can’t stay behind,” said Clarke. “You can’t leave your sister behind. She needs you.” A small nagging part of her brain almost led her to say _I need you_ too, but she figured now wasn’t the time or place.

“I can stay.” Jasper had crouched on the other side of Monty, and now he spoke in a soft voice.

The thought of leaving Jasper behind tugged too hard on Clarke’s heartstrings, and she shook tears out of her eyes. “There’s got to be another way. There must be…”

“No.” The word was surprisingly strong and firm, coming from Monty. He pushed himself up on his elbows, trying to get in a sitting position. When he struggled too much and winced, Bellamy sat behind him and propped him up the way he wanted to be. “I’m going to stay behind.”

“What?” Clarke hissed, “Monty, that’s crazy.”

“No, that’s realistic.” She could see the effort it took for him to speak, but he did it anyways. “You heard Lexa, she was impressed by what I know about poison. I could be useful here, and as long as I’m useful, I stay alive.”

“Monty, you’re _broken_.”

“Then fix me up, Clarke, and let me go. I’ll stay here until you become queen and settle things between Ark and Trikru.”

Jasper’s face grew darker, “But I don’t want you to stay behind! I don’t want to leave you behind.”

“Either way, it’s you or me Jasper.” Monty looked oddly calm, a slight sad smile on his lips and in his widened eyes. “At least if I stay, I can be useful. You, well, you’re hopeless.”

Clarke wished Monty’s casual joking was doing more to make her feel better, but it didn’t. She couldn’t leave him behind.

“Lexa,” she said, standing up shakily. She could feel her body trembling from exhaustion and emotion. “I – I can’t make a decision like that. Not now.” Clarke noticed the light spilling in through the high-up windows at the top of the stone chamber. The pale blue sky had changed, growing darker and spilling sunlight from a setting sun. “It’s growing late. I can’t imagine you’ll have us leave Polis just before nightfall.”

Lexa nodded slowly, “You will stay the night, then leave in the morning. The _three_ of you.”

“Then give us until morning to work this out.” Clarke briefly met Bellamy’s gaze, each face a mirror of the other’s concern. Still, she was glad to have him at her side. “Please, Commander.”

Their shared look did not go unnoticed by Lexa. Clarke saw a muscle tighten in her jaw, bringing a stony composure to her already-intimidating façade. “You will have until morning to decide. In the meantime, Clarke of Ark, you are invited to join me for evening meal at my dining tent.”

Clarke hadn’t been expecting that. “Just me?”

“You alone.”

“But--- What about Monty?”

“Your friend will be taken care of,” Lexa dismissed it like it was a minor detail, not a person’s life hanging by a thread.

Clarke knew what was the right thing to do, the logical, wise thing to do. She knew what she _should_ do, as a royal representing the nation of Ark. But instead, she decided to simply be Clarke.

“I can’t.” She said earnestly. “I can’t leave my friends. Right now, I need to be here with them.”

“You do not refuse an offer from the Commander like this,” Indra warned, her voice low and gravelly.

“I’m sorry.” Clarke had nothing more to say.

An awkward silence hung like a low cloud in the air, thick and oppressing. Finally, Lexa saw that Clarke wasn’t about to change her mind. “Very well then. _Teik em we_ ,” she snapped out at the guards in the shadows. They moved forwards in synchronized swiftness, and Clarke felt herself being grabbed from behind. She skidded across the stone floor on her rear, arms pulled roughly to her back.

“Hey, _hey_!” She yelled, head whipping around to see her friends treated the same way. Monty was entirely limp, Bellamy and Jasper were putting up a considerable struggle. “Lexa!”

“By declining my invitation, you made it clear that you are not my guest, Clarke of Ark.” Lexa did nothing to conceal the bitterness in her voice. “If you are not my guest, you are my prisoner.”

“But I need to save Monty!” Clarke fought wildly, thrashing her shoulders and kicking out behind her. “I need to get to Monty! I---” She opened her mouth to yell again, only to have her temple smacked with a strong backhand swing. Her head slammed to the side, teeth rattling.

“Clarke!” She heard Bellamy call her name, a ferocity in his voice that she didn’t hear often. The sounds of a scuffle meant he was getting dragged off in the opposite direction from her. “Clarke!”

“Bellamy!” Tears spilled down her cheeks and stars danced before her eyes. “Bellamy….”

 

* * *

 

Clarke had been staring at the floor with an intense glare when she heard the flap to her tent rustle. A Trikru guard entired, a towering man with a full bushy beard and swirling blue tattoos dancing across his face. Clarke lifted her head, ignoring the throbbing pain forming at her temple.

He bent down next to her, where her hands were tied to the main support pole of the tent. She flinched when his large hands brushed her skin, but then realized that he’d cut her bindings.

Clarke dove at the guard, catching him by surprise and tackling him. They rolled until, by his strength, he landed on top of Clarke. He pinned her down with his knee, then sat up. “I’m not here to fight you, royal blood. I’m to bring you to your friends.”

Clarke stopped struggling, face showing the confusion she felt. She’d assumed that each of them had been separated from each other, but now she understood that only she had been separated from the other three. Probably Lexa’s punishment for turning down the dinner invitation.

Released, Clarke rose slowly to standing. Distantly, she heard the guard introduce himself as Nyko, but she barely registered it; she was more concerned about reaching her companions, namely Monty. Nyko grasped her shoulder from behind, firmly steering her down a winding path past a number of identical animal-hide tents. They came to a rough halt outside a tent that looked no different from the others, and when Nyko barked something in Trigedaslang to the guard outside the front, Clarke was pushed inside.

“Clarke!” She heard Jasper’s gasp and found her friend sitting on his knees. Bellamy was pacing by the center of the tent, his face swollen and bruised from a struggle. Both still had their hands tied behind their backs.

Bellamy took three quick steps to Clarke, relief showing in his eyes. It was strange to see such a vulnerable emotion so clearly on his face. Fully aware of Nyko’s presence behind her, Clarke ignored her better judgment and made quick work slipping Bellamy’s hands out from his bindings. Released, he swallowed Clarke in a warm embrace that caught her off guard. He exhaled a shaky breath into her hair. “I had no idea where they’d taken you.” He said, his voice quiet. “I thought… I thought they…”

“I’m okay,” she reassured him, then pulled away remembering everyone else in the tent. She untied Jasper’s bindings, giving him a quick hug before noticing Monty on the floor. He – thankfully – wasn’t bound, but he was laying on his back with a face as pale as bone. Clarke knelt at his side, examining the messy bandages over the slice wound.

“I have supplies.” Nyko’s gruff voice cut the tight tension in the tent, and he unfurled a straw mat filled with rudimentary medical tools. Clarke knew exactly what she would need: clean bandages, disinfectant, and a suture kit. She took a quick inventory based on what Nyko had showed her.

“What is this?” She held up a cloudy bottle with a strange liquid inside.

“It will clean the wound.”

“Will it keep away infection?” Nyko nodded in reply, so Clarke unstoppered it and gave a quick sniff. The dizzying odor told her it was some sort of alcohol. She reached for a clean --- or relatively clean, by Trikru standards --- rag, dipped it in the bottle, and began to dab at Monty’s side. His body convulsed when she touched him, and it took both Bellamy and Jasper to keep him pinned down. Clarke moved quickly, but she couldn’t keep her hands from shaking. Once she had the wound mostly clean, she could see it for what it was: a streaking slash a good five inches long. Clarke moved on to the suture kit, sanitizing the one needle she had and threading it. Her fingers trembled as they skirted over Monty’s flesh, but by the time she’d finished her stitches were decent enough to hold. She covered the wound with fresh bandages and secured them with ties around his waist.

Monty’s breathing was slow and shallow, and soon he drifted off to sleep. Clarke rested back, bloody hands resting on her knees. Her head felt thick, thick with worry and fear and Lexa’s condition hanging ominously in her mind.

“Clarke.” Bellamy was gentle but no-nonsense in his tone. “We should talk.”

She followed him to a corner of the tent, well aware that Jasper and Nyko could probably still hear them if they listened, but not really caring. She noticed how Bellamy kept his voice down anyways. “We need to have a plan, considering Lexa’s condition about one of us staying behind.”

“I can’t leave anyone behind, Bellamy.” She heard her voice break.

“We don’t have a choice. Even if we could sneak out of Polis, and that would take a miracle or two in itself, there’s no way we could make it all the way to the river without getting caught.”

“Then what do we do?” _What do_ I _do?_

“Maybe Monty was right.”

“No.” She barely let the words leave his lips before shutting him down. “There’s no way I’m leaving Monty behind. Not in a condition like this.”

“You heard him; Lexa was impressed by his skills. He can stay in her care, working for the Commander until you make the peace deal official.”

“Do you hear yourself right now?” Clarke asked, incredulous. “You can’t actually be serious? _Leaving_ Monty behind?”

“One of us has to stay behind. You already said you won’t let me stay.”

“It wouldn’t make sense. You have Octavia to take care of.”

“If Jasper were to stay, the most he could hope for would be to become a slave in Lexa’s court. There’s no way they’d treat him like a guest if he can’t be useful, and I don’t think they’re exactly looking for moonshine brewers in the Polis royal court.”

“There’s got to be another way.” Clarke ran a hand through her hair, feeling the tangles and dirt matting her curls. Her head felt like it would explode, as she drowned in a churning sea of emotions and decisions. “We’ve just got to think---”

The guard from outside the tent hurried in, eyes stormy. “Time’s up.”

“No,” Clarke froze, begging to Nyko. “No, please, just a few more minutes.” Nyko looked conflicted, ultimately giving in to the decrees of the other guard. He grabbed Clarke’s shoulder again and began steering her towards the tent’s flap.

“Bellamy, Jasper, don’t do _anything_ until the morning.” Clarke held her shaking voice steady, trying to muster up as much strength in her words. She needed time to figure this out. “Just wait until the morning.”

Bellamy wouldn’t meet her eyes as she was pulled from the tent.

Clarke marched with heavy feet back to her old tent. Once inside, Nyko lashed her hands together, this time in front rather than behind her back. He left the tent without a word, leaving Clarke to her thick silence. Seeing nothing else to stay awake for, she felt the weight of exhaustion drag down her shoulders. She crossed to her bedmat, which consisted of a few musty firs stacked on each other, sank to the ground and curled up to catch some sleep.

 

* * *

 

“Your Majesty, it’s time to come to bed.” Queen Abby slowly turned from the window at the sound of her nursemaid’s voice. The moonlight played off her face, elongating the hollows in her cheeks and bags underneath her eyes. The news about her daughter had given her another spell of life, but it was starting to wane. It had been more than a week without any news.

“Yes, Sophia,” Abby nodded and crossed to the side of her bed. Sitting down, she kicked a satin slipper off each foot, lost in her thoughts. Somewhere, out there in the night, was _Clarke_. Her daughter. Or, _maybe_ it was Clarke. But maybe it was another girl, a girl who shared Clarke’s appearance but not her family. And she _might_ come home, but she might not. Kane, for reasons Abby didn’t understand, only sent one of his guards to retrieve her. What if the lone guard had been unsuccessful in locating Clarke? Or what if something had happened to them on the way back?

What if it wasn’t Clarke at all?

Abby settled back onto her pillows, letting her narrow frame settle into the plush beneath her. Just as she closed her eyes her diaphragm clenched, sending her into another round of dizzying coughs. She lurched forwards, hand covered her mouth while the other grabbed blindly at the bedclothes to stabilize herself. Sophia’s firm hand clasped Abby’s shoulder, letting the queen finish her fit.

When Abby pulled her hand away from her mouth, it was dotted with blood.

“Here, ma’am.” Sophia dabbed at Abby’s palm with a handkerchief, moving to the nightstand and sliding open the top drawer. She extracted the familiar bottle of medicine that Abby was prescribed to take when her coughing became too rough. Sophia spooned out the foul syrup and Abby swallowed it, the pungent taste replacing the taste of blood in her mouth.

“I fear it’s getting worse, Sophia.” Abby spoke grimly.

“Shall I send for Doctor Jackson?” Sophia wore a look of concern.

“No, not at this hour.” Abby settled back onto the pillows. “I’ll talk to him in the morning.”

Sophia buzzed around, tugging Abby’s sheets up to her neck and fluffing the pillows out behind her. She spoke softly, saying something about replacing Abby’s sagging pillows with new ones soon. “I’ll present the inquiry to the Chancellor tomorrow,” Sophia hummed. “Remember how he recommended the best down farm last time? He’s got brilliant taste, the Chancellor. Even in pillows.”

Abby’s last thought, before drifting off to sleep, was how peculiar it was that the Chancellor would spend his time on a matter as trivial as pillows.

 

* * *

 

Clarke awoke to the sound of people in her tent. She jolted upright too quickly, her head spinning as the blood rushed to keep up. There were four Trikru warriors in the small tent: Nyko, with his full beard and tattoos; two new guards that she didn’t recognize, each heavily armed; and Lexa, the commander herself, walking with a confidence that was practically radiant.

“Time to leave, Clarke of Ark.” She kept her head up and vacant of expression, so it was impossible to gauge how she felt about letting her prisoners go.

“What, what do you mean?” Clarke asked, confused.

“You have met the conditions for you release, so you will be free to leave. A team of my guards will escort you to the river port, where the remains of your crew have been kept. From there, you can return to your country.”

A part of Clarke was surprised to hear that some of _The Phoenix’s_ crew was still alive, but there were bigger questions to be answered. She was still left in the dark.

“But I never agreed to the deal,” she insisted honestly. “I never gave you someone to leave behind.”

“You didn’t.” Lexa’s green eyes held an edge in them like the side of a blade. “But your friend, Monty, did. He will be of much use in my court.”

“No.” The word slipped past Clarke’s lips, her jaw falling slack as her brain put two-and-two together. All of a sudden, her hands felt clammy and a cold sweat dampened her brow. “No, it can’t be. Not Monty, please! He’s hurt, he can’t stay.”

“As long as he proves his value here in Polis, he will be fine.” Lexa’s tone made it clear she felt Clarke was overreacting. “And the sooner _the queen_ and I can broker a deal for peace, the sooner your friend can go home.” She made a gesture to Nyko and one of her personal guards, who each grabbed one of Clarke’s shoulders and steered her from the tent.

“No!” Clarke was digging her heels into the dirt, trying to stay rooted. But their brute strength was too much for her. She whipped her head around, fighting to keep her eyes trained on Lexa, pleading. “Lexa, please, don’t take Monty! Don’t take Monty from me!”

She was aware of the fact that the guards were dragging her out onto the main road out of Polis, aware of Bellamy and Jasper joining her. Jasper’s eyes were swollen and ringed with red, while Bellamy kept his gaze on the ground. Clarke was openly sobbing. “I didn’t get to say goodbye!” Her body shook with the wracking cries, and she craned her neck as if she would see Monty’s familiar face hiding among the tents and buildings of Lexa’s compound. “I didn’t get to say goodbye…”

“Come.” Nyko commanded her, pushing her forward with the heel of his hand pressing deep into her shoulder. “We move out now.”

The sobs eventually subsided to silent tears, then total numbness. Clarke knew that the marching journey would reopen her blisters from the day before – and it did – but she couldn’t feel the pain. Even the sensation in her bad leg was little more than a dull ache. She was numb and emotionless, her mind sluggishly slow in processing the fact that she’d just left behind her best friend.

And it wasn’t even her choice.

Thankfully, neither Jasper nor Bellamy spoke a word during the trek. In Clarke’s eyes, they were both traitors. Regardless of how logical the decision might have seemed to them, or Monty for that matter,  she couldn’t move past the fact that they’d let him stay behind. _Monty_ : smart, clever, kind-hearted Monty; broken, injured, dying Monty. Her hands clenched into fists at the thought alone, picturing Monty all by himself in Lexa’s clutches. Only the sensation of pain, as her fingernails drew blood digging into her palms, brought her back to reality.

She lost all track of time. The sun rose higher in the sky until it was scorching, then began to lower. It must’ve been a few hours past midday when the river first came into view. The thick forest trees began to thin out, and the soil underfoot changed to something rockier. A primitive wooden shack came into view, blending perfectly in with its surroundings, built with dark wood and moss growing on the roof. One of the guards in their party rapped three times on the front door. A small slot opened up, revealing just the eyes of another Trikru man inside, and they exchanged a few quick whispers in Trigedaslang before the door was flung open.

A handful of sailors from _The Phoenix_ , hands and feet in shackles, stumbled out of the house. Clarke recognized Captain Quint towards the rear, though he looked entirely different with his uniform tattered and steely hair lopsided. He wore a vacant look in his eyes and shadowy bags underneath.

The guard who’d knocked on the door marched right up to Quint, getting right in his face. “Your ship has been spared. The Commander orders you to bring these Arkians back to your nation.”

When Quint raised his head, his expression was oddly serene. It was all quiet, except for the usual hum of the forest and distant sound of the river, when he spoke. “I don’t take orders from your commander.” His gaze drifted to Clarke. “I serve the Princess.”

The Trikru guard took a swing at Quint’s face, catching him in the cheek and sending the older man’s head reeling. His hot breath filled the captain’s face. “You will sail your ship, or I’ll slit your throat and find another sailor to do it in your place.”

Quint stumbled backwards, eyes watching Clarke with a question in his eyes. He was waiting for her word. All she could do was nod yes to the guard’s command. She needed to get home somehow.

They approached the riverbank, and Clarke recognized the battered shape of _The Phoenix_ silhouetted against the green water. The hull was still cracked on one side, but at least the boat was able to stay afloat. The main mast and sail remained intact, and after the threadbare crew made a quick scan of the ship they deemed it fit enough for travel. Clarke was prodded up the gangplank, returning onto the familiar deck of the ship. Her hands were still bound – as were Bellamy’s and Jasper’s – when the Trikrus started leaving.

“Hey!” Jasper called out. “Are you going to untie us?”

One of the guards snorted, reaching into his belt and withdrawing a knife. He tossed it onto the deck with little regard showing in his face. “Cut yourself free.” With that, the Trikru warriors slipped back into the trees and out of sight.

It took several minutes for _The Phoenix_ to finally pull away from the shore. The ship was lacking in sailors, and the ones that were alive were haggard and tired. They were fighting unfamiliar currents, but eventually they mastered the controls enough to bring the ship out to the center of the river and moving northwards.

Bellamy had been the first one to grab the knife and cut his hands free. Afterwards he went to cut Clarke’s ties, but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of helping her. She pulled the knife from his hands and struggled with it before slicing her ties herself. From that moment on, she kept her distance from both Bellamy and Jasper, remaining alone on the far side of the deck. She’d hoped that she was sending a clear message to them – _stay away_ – but Bellamy eventually approached her anyways.

“Clarke,” he began unsteadily. “I know you think you could’ve found a way out of this, a way to get all four of us released. But you heard Lexa. It’s a small miracle that she let _three_ of her prisoners go, she never would’ve let four leave.”

Clarke shook her head slowly, eyes on the river. “You don’t know what I think.”

“You think you could’ve convinced her, but she wasn’t looking to bargain. It would’ve been a waste of your time.”

“We don’t know that!” Clarke spun, eyes fiery. “We don’t know if she would’ve listened. We don’t know if Monty’s going to be okay, or…” Her voice choked. “I abandoned him, Bellamy. _We all_ did. How are you supposed to tell me that _that’s okay?_ ”

“Because Monty saw the bigger picture.” Bellamy took a step forward, which in turn made Clarke back up against the ship’s side. “He gave himself up so that _you_ could go free. It’s not just about the four of us; he saw something greater.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m talking about Lexa’s peace bargain. Monty knew that Lexa wouldn’t make that peace pact without some insurance, so he made himself the insurance.” There was raw emotion written all over Bellamy’s face; Clarke could tell that losing Monty had upset him, but he was fighting to see the logic in it. “Monty didn’t just sacrifice his freedom for us, he did it for _the whole country_. To guarantee peace and prevent a war.”

Clarke grabbed a fistful of her hair, frustrated. _How can Bellamy really be arguing with me about this?_ “If it was such a noble and _heroic_ thing to do, then why didn’t you step up and do it?” She fired back. “You let an invalid sacrifice himself and stood by doing nothing?”

Bellamy’s expression darkened, recognizing the direction Clarke was going in. “You said it yourself. I have Octavia. I have family that I have to get back to, family that’s relying on me.”

“Family,” Clarke gave a humorless laugh, hands clenching and unclenching in between fists. “Let me ask you this: If Octavia was in Monty’s place, what would you have done?”

His eyes widened. “Don’t do that, Clarke.”

“ _What would you have done?_ ”

“I would’ve done anything it took to keep Octavia out of harm’s way.” He said it with strength and truth in his voice. “Even if it meant sacrificing myself.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Isn’t it obvious? She’s my _sister_.”

“Then why can’t you see why it’s wrong to have left Monty behind?” Clarke felt the anger bottling up inside of her. “Monty is nothing less than a brother to me!”

“That’s different, Clarke. Octavia is my family.”

“Monty is my family too!” Clarke was shouting now. “What, because we’re not blood related Monty can’t be considered my brother? He and Jasper are the closest thing to _family_ that I’ve had throughout most of my life!” Her body trembled with emotion. “Monty has been my family for the last ten years, the only family I can say I really know. There’s so much I don’t remember about my father, and I don’t really know my mother! You and your bond to your sister, _that’s_ my bond with Monty! He may not be my real brother, but I consider him my brother in this life.”

“You’ve got another life too.” Bellamy insisted. “And _that life_ is waiting for you at the palace. Monty understood that you _have_ to get to the throne, for the good of the rest of Ark. That’s why he gave himself up! To get you home!”

“That’s _not_ my home!”

“It is now. And the sooner you get that idea through your head, the better.” Clarke had never seen him like this: truly mad. “You are rooted in your past, Clarke Griffin. The last ten years happened, so what? Move on. You’re going to be queen, and you’ve got to accept that. Yeah, you call Monty your family, whatever. But you’ve got other family at the palace too: your mom, who’s never really given up on you; your betrothed, who’s waiting for you to return. You’ve got another life, and you’ve got to start living it.”

Clarke clenched her jaw, feeling the muscles under her ears tighten. When she spoke, her voice was quiet but full of pure loathing. “Maybe that’s it, then. When I get to Station City, I can disappear into my _other life_ , and I will never have to see _you_ again.” She could see the pain she’d inflicted on him with her words, just a flickering falter in his eyes, but she didn’t care.

Or at least that’s what she told herself when she turned and stormed away.

 

* * *

 

The setting sun hung just halfway down the horizon when General Kane was alerted of the arrival. He’d been neck-deep in reports from the old battlefields – where the Trikru army was amassing – all day long, so he’d opted to take his dinner in his office. Having just finished off his modest meal of roast goose and vegetables, he sat penning a reply to one of his subordinate officers when the page appeared at his door, chest heaving and breath short.

“Your presence is required in the great hall, General.” The page huffed out. “Immediately.”

Kane sprung from his seat, taking large quick strides towards the door. He pushed past the page, mind racing. The first conclusion he came to, hauntingly, was _Abby_. If something had happened to the ailing queen, then the matter would be more than urgent. He quickened his already-flying pace.

When he approached the heavy cherry doors to the main hall, he didn’t wait for the attendant guards to open them: he pushed them open himself. “What’s wrong?” The question escaped his lips before he noticed the other two people at the center of the hall. Chancellor Jaha stood, dressed in his typical dark attire and a thick fur cape over his shoulders, with his face showing a muted reflection of Kane’s own confusion. Waiting beside him, wrapped in a lavish dressing gown twice her size, was the queen, her face flushed with a hint of a rosy blush. Seeing her upright and well brought relief to Kane’s nerves, but it didn’t answer his question.

“I don’t know,” Abby stammered, gaze shifting between Kane and Jaha.

A different set of doors opened slowly. From behind them, a cluster of royal guards entered the hall, escorting the most ragged trio Kane had ever seen in the palace. There were two men, each with dark hair, and he might’ve recognized the larger one as his own cadet if he hadn’t been so focused on the blond girl in the middle. Her features were the unmistakable combination of Jacob and Abigail Griffin.

She took two steps beyond the front of the group, exposing her left wrist and the royal mark that was tattooed there.

“My name is Clarke Griffin, and I believe you were looking for me.”

 

 

 

 


	13. Always Starting Over

The last time Clarke saw Bellamy, she was being escorted from the great hall. She was flanked by two sharp-dressed guards, each wearing a cleaner, fancier version of Bellamy’s uniform. Dressed in her mismatched clothes with dirt smeared all over, Clarke was well aware of the fact that she stood out in this palace. She was like one dirty smear on a spotless brass plate. But what did she care? She was a Griffin. She was royalty. She belonged here.

Or so she was told.

As she passed the place where Bellamy stood, she couldn’t help but steal a glimpse in his direction. Of course, his head was turned away from her, gaze trained down on the floor. Having gotten to know him, she was able to read the tiny details in his character for what they were: his face was flushed, meaning he felt uncomfortable or slightly embarrassed; his brows were furrowed, not necessarily angry but most definitely unhappy; the muscles in his jaw were tense, revealing that he was forcing himself to keep his eyes away. With his dirty uniform, bruises and scratches, and overgrown hair that curled on the ends, Clarke could imagine that he looked nothing like the guard who’d left the palace a fortnight ago.

As Clarke passed him, close enough to hear his breathing, she dragged her gaze away. She’d only been looking at him for a second or two, but it felt too long anyways. Like it or not, Bellamy had her hooked. She was afraid, she realized, that staring for too long might lead to her have sympathetic feelings for Bellamy, or understand his stance behind the Monty fiasco, or try to make amends. Or, worst of all, he might look up at her.

Clarke kept walking, and she didn’t exhale the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding until the door shut behind her.

 

* * *

 

“Name?”

Bellamy saw how Jasper was sitting with a stiff back on the edge of his seat, weight forward with the balls of his feet. He looked ready to take off at any moment. Not that it would’ve done him any good. Both Jasper and Bellamy had been taken to General Kane’s office, which was located deep within the palace: Bellamy for mission debriefing, and Jasper for questioning.

“Jasper Jordan,” he stammered, his voice uncharacteristically small. It was as though losing Monty had left a part of Jasper raw and exposed, and he was nursing it like a wound.

Kane jotted down the name. “Occupation?”

“Apprentice,” Jasper said, adding, “To an ale brewer.” Bellamy resisted the urge to raise a skeptical eyebrow at that. It was a large lie to tell, even if Jasper stretched the truth and made up some person to be apprenticed to.

“A brewer?” Kane’s expression was halfway between impressed and unconvinced. “To whom, may I ask?”

“Thomas O’Breene.” Jasper answered without missing a beat. Bellamy wholeheartedly hoped there really was some ale brewer named Thomas O’Breene for Jasper’s sake.

“And tell me, Mr. Jordan,” Kane returned to writing. “How did you come to meet Her Highness?”

“Pure chance,” Jasper admitted. He went on to explain how he had met Clarke after the explosion. Hearing the story, Kane’s face became somber. Jasper spoke with untactful casualness about the explosion, oblivious to the fact that it had killed Kane’s mother. Bellamy, meanwhile, was helplessly forced to listen to him.

With a shadow on his face, Kane spoke up. “And you had no idea who Clarke really was, at the time? Nothing about her true identity?”

“Nope. I was a little kid; what, nine at the time? I didn’t really pay attention to detailss. To be completely honest, I spent the first year or so trying everything I could to ignore Clarke was even there. It was Monty who finally convinced me to really talk to her.”

“Monty?” Kane looked confused.

“My… my best friend.” Jasper’s face fell and his voice was little more than a whisper. “He had to stay behind.”

“Behind where?”

“When we were captured and brought to Polis. Their leader, Lexa, she would only let us go --- let _Clarke_ go --- if one of us stayed behind. Monty gave himself up.”

“Ah, yes,” Kane leaned back in his seat and nodded in Bellamy’s direction. The cadet had given a quick summary of their returning journey, though he hadn’t really gone into detail. He’d skirted around Monty for two reasons: One, because he wasn’t sure how Jasper would react, and two, because leaving Monty behind wasn’t something he was particularly proud of.

“Well, Mr. Jordan, if your friend Monty means as much to Her Highness as he does to you, then I can assure you that the royal guard will do everything in our power to get him back safely.”

“You can’t.” Jasper said without emotion. “It has to be Clarke. That was the deal.”

“What deal?”

“The bargain she made with Lexa,” Bellamy added. “Trading a guarantee for peace between Ark and Trikru for our freedom. It was the only leverage she had that could get us back to Station City.”

Kane didn’t look pleased as he scratched away with his quill on the parchment. “That’s an awfully large bargain for the princess to be making. She really has no power to carry through with it.”

“She will when she’s queen.” Bellamy insisted.

“Even so, relations between Ark and Trikru are more complicated than that. There’s been a long history of animosity between the two nations. You should know that, Blake.” The way Kane spoke to him was borderline patronizing. “And then there’s the issue of the Mount Weather territory, to the west. The Chancellor has been adamant about obtaining that land for years, and there’s a long list of high-ranking government officials who stand wholeheartedly behind him.”

“No one gives a damn about Mount Weather.” Bellamy was fighting to keep his tone calm and controlled, but he was failing. “Even if all of your officials stand behind this war, they’re not the ones fighting it: that falls on the _people_. The working class. And they don’t want war like the Chancellor or his posse does. They don’t see the same glory in it, because _they_ would be the ones with their lives on the line.”

“Watch your mouth, Blake.” Kane warned, eyes steely. “Your temper does you no good.” He sat in stifling silence straightening the stacks of paper covering his desk. “These matters are more intricate than you could understand. For the princess to dismiss that all, whatever the circumstances, was ultimately a rash and impractical decision.”

“Clarke was fighting for her life!” Bellamy leaned forward in his chair, fingers gripping the armrests until they turned his knuckles white. Through his emotion-hazed vision, he was vaguely aware of Jasper’s wide eyes staring at him. “And mine, and Jasper’s. She was doing the only thing which she _could_ do. She understood that Lexa wouldn’t budge without a good offer. And sure, maybe Clarke overstepped her princess powers of right now, but some things are unavoidable. Sometimes, there’s only one choice, regardless of whether it’s a good or bad one.”

“That is _Her Highness_ to you, Cadet!” Kane chastised him in a firm voice. For an instant, Bellamy was carried back to guard training when he was fifteen and naïve. For this flicker of a moment, a slice of a memory, Bellamy had refused orders or made some under-his-breath comment about one of his commanding officers. Kane held the same reprimanding tone as he did eight years ago, when he would scold that underfed boy with the dark curls falling in his eyes.

Kane rose slowly, palms pressed flat into the metal surface of his desk. The gray-brown hues in his eyes were stormy like rolling thunderclouds. He spoke quietly, his words all falling in a neat, controlled line. “I’ll say this only once to you, Bellamy Blake: Your passion doesn’t bode well in outbursts, and those outbursts will get you kicked off the guard. Whatever feelings you might harbor for the princess, you’ll shut them down now. She’s to be married to the Chancellor’s son by the end of the week, and there is nothing you can do to change that. So, if I were you, I’d remember your decency and your place and _shut it down_.”

Just as slowly as he’d risen, Kane settled back into his seat. His eyes never left Bellamy’s as though he was watching to see if a bomb would explode or not. In fact, it took every fiber of Bellamy’s being – every inch of control he had in him – _not_ to explode at Kane. Instead, he swallowed thickly and lifted his chin up.

“Yes, sir.”

 

* * *

 

After being escorted from the hall, the guards brought Clarke to a modest room to spend the night in. It was small and entirely interior, with no outside windows. In all honesty, it felt to her like a glorified jail cell. Apparently the royal treatment wouldn’t start until they confirmed that Clarke was actually _royal_.

She was woken up early in the morning and led deeper into the palace, stopping in a tiny, underfurnished room. Three of the walls were thick stone, and the fourth consisted of a velvet curtain; Clarke was sure that others were sitting on the opposite side of it, waiting to listen in on her questioning. A round-faced guard sat on one side of the simple wooden table, and Clarke settled onto the other.

“My name is Officer Shumway,” he said, his words clipped and crisp. He opened a black leather-bound journal that sat on the desk, tilting it so only he could read the words. “When you are ready, the official questioning will begin.”

In total, the inquiry lasted just over an hour and a half. The questions ranged from broad --- “Describe to me your earliest childhood memories” --- to painstakingly narrow --- “When you were seven years old, who was your mathematics tutor?” Three or four questions were devoted to Clarke’s royal tattoo alone, and she firmly insisted that she’d received it at the young age of four, as was customary of royals. Most of Shumway’s queries concerned Clarke’s life at the palace as a child, only a half-dozen asking about her whereabouts after the bombing attack. He never wrote anything down or strayed from the matter at hand, simply giving a brief nod after each answer from Clarke.

As they came to an end, Clarke stretched her stiffening back. Shumway disappeared behind the curtain – of course – before returning with a professional smile on his face. Behind him stood the queen.

“Welcome home, Your Highness,” he said to Clarke, bowing his head. A wave of relief lifted the weight off of Clarke’s sore shoulders. She wasn’t concerned that she would fail the questioning, but she certainly felt better having passed.

For the first time in ten years, Abby rushed forward to embrace her daughter. Having seen her mother keep her regal distance the night before, Clarke wasn’t expecting this. But when Abby flung her bony arms around Clarke’s shoulders, pulling her daughter in, Clarke broke down. Tears left tiny paths in the dirt dusting her cheeks.

“I knew it,” Abby said in a shaking whisper, speaking into Clarke’s hair. “I knew the moment I saw you that you were my baby girl. Test or no test, I knew it was you.”

“Mom…” Clarke struggled to speak, not having the words to describe the terrifying amount of emotion that was consuming her. It was as though all of her strength had been drained out, leaving a trembling ten-year-old in her place.

Abby pulled away, her cheeks and eyes reddened with the stain of life. She gripped Clarke’s shoulders. “Let’s get you cleaned up. There’s someone who is eager to see you.”

Clarke honestly couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a hot bath. _Any_ sort of bath was hard to come by living in the woods, but this one was so different. The tub was really the size of a small pool, carved into bricks of gleaming marble with flower petals dotting the warm, sweet-smelling water. As soon as her skin hit the bathwater, Clarke melted. She laid back in that bath for an hour, letting the grime and blood wash clean from her battered body. Finally the maids forced her out of the water, wrapping her in a robe made from the softest fabric she could remember touching. As they dried and brushed out her flaxen hair, Clarke sat clothed in a cloud.

“Here,” Abby spoke up from the doorway into the dressing chamber, holding a folded swath of purple fabric in her hands. “When they told me you were coming home, I had my best dressmakers start preparing a full wardrobe for you. Only the finest for my princess.”

After years of nothing but patched leggings and ill-fitting vests and tunics, Clarke was ready to give dresses a try. Even if she would never admit that out loud.

 

* * *

 

Octavia’s eyelid itched, and she wished she could scratch it. But, standing at the top of the highest reachable ledge in the cavern, a thick blindfold tied over her eyes, she had bigger things to worry about.

“This exercise is purely mental,” Lincoln said from a far distance away. “All you have to do is follow my steps exactly. Do what I tell you to do.”

Even if she couldn’t see the ground, Octavia could hear the echoes of The Underworld down below, and the distance sounded great enough to set her nerves on fire. “There’s got to be a catch.”

“There always is.” She could hear the little smirk in Lincoln’s typically-serious voice. “I will be steering you right along the edge of the ledge. And I won’t try and distract you from that fact.”

“You’re going to get me killed,” Octavia muttered.

“I heard that. And remember: this is all mental. If you can get out of your own way, then you’ll pass this challenge. Ready?”

She wasn’t sure what to make of Lincoln’s advice, but nodded anyways. For the first few steps, he ordered her to move forwards slowly. She placed each footstep carefully, feeling for the smooth rock beneath her boot. Then his directions angled her slightly to the right. Her steps grew smaller, out of hesitance and fear, until Octavia moved forward and felt the toe of her boot hanging over the edge.

Her breath hitched, body tensing. She could feel a swirling cave breeze hitting her face, and she was suddenly overwhelmed by dizziness. Instinctively, she turned her body away from the ledge.

“No,” Lincoln instructed, then told her to keep turning to her right. When she was ordered to stop, she could tell that she was facing out from the wall, toes hanging over the edge.

“Take a breath, Octavia.”

It was as though Lincoln’s words were the only thing anchoring Octavia to the ledge. Slowly, she filled her lungs up with the cold cavern air until her chest swelled, then heaved it out through lips parted in an ‘o’ shape. She repeated that process, standing in perfect silence. Soon, she felt balance. A strange tingling lit up her fingertips, as though she could take off and fly at any moment.

“Without turning, move to your left.”

She began with timid shuffling steps, keeping her knees locked. But Octavia didn’t even need to hear Lincoln’s instructions to know that her technique wouldn’t pass. Instead, she lifted her right foot in a stiff fashion and planted it on the other side of her left foot. It took time to build up her confidence, but soon enough she was walking sideways, in a perfectly straight line, right up along the edge of the ledge.

She would’ve bumped into Lincoln if she hadn’t been so tuned into her surroundings and heard his breathing. She stopped. Feeling his hands rising to her face, he slipped off the blindfold. His dark eyes never left hers.

“That,” he said softly, “is the lesson of trust.”

 

* * *

 

Once his trainwreck meeting with Kane wrapped up, all Bellamy wanted was sleep. Sleep, in theory, was the only way he could shut his brain down and block out all of the circling thoughts in his mind, mostly those concerning the newfound lost princess. He didn’t even make it back home; instead, he stumbled down a familiar hallway to the guard barracks, where trainees and any cadets without families lived. Body heaving and vision fuzzy, he settled on the first unoccupied room he could find, kicked off his boots and chestplate, and crashed onto the bed. He was out like a light.

For most of the night, his sleep was blissfully uninterrupted. Until his dreams – muted and blurred as they had been – shifted away from Clarke and towards another girl he cared about deeply, a girl with dark hair and brilliant blue eyes…

“Octavia!” He cried out, throwing himself out of his sleep. Sitting up too quickly, he tangled his legs in the bedsheets he didn’t remember crawling under and struggled to move off the bed. The clock on the nightstand said it was approaching eleven in the morning, which was _well_ past when he should’ve woken up for guard duty. The fact that no one had fetched him for duty meant one of two things: Either someone had given Bellamy the day off -- considering the mission he’d just come from -- or no one in the palace knew exactly where he was. He hoped for the first to be true.

Bellamy tugged his boots back on and slipped his chestplate under his arm, not bothering to tie it on or fix his bedhead hair. He practically flew out of the room and away from the barracks, descending down the nearest stairwell two steps at a time. In his mind, he was kicking himself. _How could I forget about Octavia?_ It was embarrassing. He’d let everything distract him --- he’d let _Clarke_ distract him --- from the one person he should care about more than anyone else. The one person who relied on him and needed him.

Reaching the far bottom of the steps, Bellamy navigated his way through the dank stone hallways of the basement, moving towards the prison. He landed right in front of the same jailguard from before, the man’s face still as puffy and red as when Bellamy had last seen him.

“I’m here to see Octavia Blake,” he panted. “General Kane has promised her release.”

“Blake?” The man wrinkled his noise in confusion, bending to read a battered tablet of charts, showing all of the prisoner names and their cells. “No Octavia Blake here. Not anymore.”

Bellamy’s blood froze, heart pounding in his ears. “What did you say?”

“I said, _no_ Octavia Blake on my records.” He squinted, mind drawing up a memory. “She was summoned a few days ago, by whom I can’t really say. Haven’t seen her since.”

Bellamy was smart enough around people to tell that the man was lying. Something fleeting in his eyes gave it away: He knew exactly who’d taken Octavia. And he wasn’t telling. Bellamy’s hand instinctively flew to his waist, forgetting that he’d been disarmed upon returning to the palace. He scowled as he remembered. “That’s not right,” he said in a low, threatening growl. “General Kane promised her release as soon as I completed my mission. If something has happened to her---”

“I know nothing!” The man feigned innocence, sitting back on his stool with his hands up and palms outwards. “If the General’s the one making the promises and calling the shots, then go talk to him. Don’t take it out on me.”

Bellamy locked his jaw, seething. He turned on his heel and raced back up the stairs, hoping to catch Kane in his office. Running through the halls, he was so focused on reaching the office that he didn’t look where he was going, and soon Bellamy crashed hand on into Marcus Kane himself.

As soon as he righted himself, Bellamy blurted out, “Where’s Octavia?”

“Dammit, Blake, don’t you know to watch where you’re going?” Kane rubbed a spot on his head. “You’re going to give me a---”

“ _Where’s Octavia_?” Bellamy wasn’t playing around. Kane noticed that quickly, his expression changing. He grabbed Bellamy by the arm and dragged him into the nearest empty room: a small library. The shades were drawn shut and Kane kept the light off.

“There was… an incident.” Kane began, his voice hushed. “All I know is that your sister was summoned from her cell, for a routine questioning by one of the prison guards, and she somehow managed to break free and run off. My men followed her until she slipped into the sewers. A specialty team was sent down, but…”

“But what?”

“They found no trace of her. All they caught was some scraps of fabric from her dress and a smear of blood on the walls. They believed she injured herself on the fall and probably drowned in the sewers.”

Bellamy’s eyes went wide, all the color draining from his face. The room felt like it was spinning around him. It was similar to when he’d learned about Clarke’s real identity, but a thousand times worse. His brain couldn’t process the news that Kane was relaying to him. _Octavia… dead?_ She was wild, he could imagine her breaking free from the guards and leading them on a crazy chase. But the mental picture of her, broken and bleeding in the sewers beneath the palace, only to stumble and fall into the putrid river of filth… It was too much. He couldn’t comprehend a world without her bell-like laugh or fiery sapphire eyes. It was like a sky with no stars.

“I’m sorry, cadet.” When Kane touched Bellamy’s shoulder, his touch was gentle and full of sympathy. But Bellamy hardly noticed. Instead, he drew into himself, folding himself away and shutting out the world around him. The colors seemed muted, the sounds dulled and distant. He was watching the world through a filter, through a foggy pane of glass the blurred the harsh edges until you just simply couldn’t understand.

He couldn’t understand.

 

* * *

 

“Here you go.” Raven smiled in triumph, wiping her damp forehead with her sleeve. She sat back on her stool, admiring the little paper-wrapped package sitting on the worktable before her.

“ _That’s_ a bomb?” Wick asked, his voice both incredulous and disbelieving. “It’s tiny.”

“It’s just the explosive part, dummy. Once we finish up the launching rigs we’ll be all set to go with these.” Raven dusted her hands off on her rough trousers. “Then it’s just a matter of making as many as we possibly can.”

Wick slid his blueprint closer to Raven. “I think this new schematic for the trigger system will be better than the old one we drafted.” He stood, pointing to the page. “See, the spark wiring is different, and that makes it smaller and easier to conceal.”

“Yeah, right. Your designs suck. Let me see that,” Raven scoffed, rising from her stool. Her foot caught on the leg of the worktable, bumping it and sending her on a tumble down. Just as her knees had buckled inwards she felt Wick’s grasp on either side of her hips, holding her up. Both pairs of eyes flew to the package on the table, which --- thankfully --- still rested undisturbed.

Then they turned back to each other, aware of how close they were standing and the little space between their faces. For a moment, time seemed to hold its breath.

Raven pushed away first. “I don’t need your help, thank you very much.” She snapped.

“You say _help_ like it’s a bad thing. It’s not always bad, Raven.”

Raven looked away, not having the words to respond to that.

 

* * *

 

 “Go on, take a look.” Abby encouraged as Clarke hovered in the doorway. Behind the castle lay the lush green expanse of the royal gardens, one of Clarke’s favorite places to play as a child. There were winding paths outlined by thick hedges, blossoming trees, fountains, and flowers, flowers everywhere. Adorning archways and scaling up the hedge walls and growing in bright beds along the path. Even with autumn creeping up, the garden still looked as fresh and exuberant as Clarke imagined it must look in the springtime.

“It’s beautiful,” she exhaled, taking slow steps forward. A gentle breeze ruffled the light lilac fabric of her dress: she wore a delicate day dress, with little lace cap sleeves and a layered skirt that fell halfway down her calves. Already, she felt more like a princess than she ever had. She even had little purple slippers made to match on her feet, which stepped lightly along the garden’s path of white stones. Clarke breathed in the fragrant air, carrying the scent of a million blossoms. She wandered deeper along the path, reaching a pretty trickling fountain adorned by a marble deer. Sitting along the basin, Clarke lazily dragged her fingers through the crystalline water when she heard footsteps behind her.

Her reflexes were too good. In half the blink of an eye, Clarke had twisted up into standing, fists out defensively. Years of forest living taught her to always be on her guard, and old habits die hard.

“…Wells?”

Her childhood friend nodded, eyes glistening. “You’re really home.”

Clarke took an awkward step forward, ignoring the wincing feeling in her bad leg from moving too quickly. She waited a beat, then gave in and threw her arms around Wells, laughing. He laughed back.

“God, Wells, you look so… big!” She teased, having remembered him as a little boy. He towered over her now, with a handsome smile and bright brown eyes. His strong arms held tight to her, then gently pushed away to get a better look at her.

“You’re beautiful, Clarke,” he said softly. He blinked himself back to reality, “I mean, you’ve _always_ been pretty, even as a kid, but now that you’re, you know, grown up…”

“Thanks, Wells,” she smirked, taking a seat at the fountain’s basin while he sat beside her. “It’s, honestly, kind of surreal, being back here. I don’t know if I ever thought I’d _be_ back.”

“Me neither. When my father told me that you were still alive, I… I didn’t know what to think. I’d always hoped, but it was _true_.” He placed a friendly hand on Clarke’s knee. “And now you’re back, just like old times.”

“Just like old times,” she repeated with a grin. Then the context of their situation flitted through her mind. “Except this time, we’re actually getting married.”

He nudged her playfully. “Not just _pretending_ to get married.”

“I swear, I probably had about a thousand make-believe weddings before I turned seven years old.”

“And you always dragged me along with you.” He chuckled at the memory of Clarke with a makeshift veil on her head walking down the pretend aisle with a bouquet of dandelions. “I still can’t believe that this is happening. All my life I’ve known about our betrothal, but… it never really felt _real_. Until now, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Clarke sighed. “Wells?”

“Yes?”

“Are you… are you ready to do this? Marriage.”

He looked down at his feet. “I could say yes, but I suppose that’s a lie. And it’s not even just marriage: we’re going to be king and queen. We’re going to rule a country.”

“I don’t even know how.” Clarke whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t even know how.”

“Hey,” Wells’s voice changed, shifting into a more comforting tone. He looked her straight in the eye when he said, “I’m glad it’s you, Clarke. At least it’s a friend, you know? I’m glad it’s you.”

“Me too,” she said, trying to convince herself that she really meant it.

 

* * *

 

“Your cadet managed an impressive task,” Abby said, walking alongside Kane. It had been two days since Clarke’s return to the palace, and the two adults found themselves strolling through the aisles of the main library. Each appreciated taking a moment to slip away from their busy schedules to seek out good company. “He managed to bring my daughter home safely, even in the face of Trikru pirates and Lexa herself. Do you plan on recognizing him for his achievements?”

“I suppose it is the right thing to do. Perhaps a medal for good work, it would set a solid precedent for the rest of my guard.”

“A brief ceremony will do,” Abby decided, as if she really needed more planning in her life. Her daughter’s return had brought about a spell of fresh life to her ailing body and spirit, so she now spent nearly every minute preparing for the upcoming royal wedding and the following coronation on Unity Day. Still, it was appropriate to honor the cadet who had brought Clarke home. “We’ll have to wait until after wedding and coronation, of course. Too much is happening before then.” She had an idea. “Perhaps I’ll have Clarke officiate it, as the new queen. It would be good ceremonial practice for her, and it’s only fitting since she knows the cadet personally.”

Kane didn’t seem sold. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Abby.”

“And why not?”

Kane’s eyes flitted down the aisle, seeing nobody else among the rows of bookshelves. He kept his voice low. “I don’t know what happened during their journey, or exactly where they stand now that they’ve returned to the palace, but it’s clear to me that Her Highness and Cadet Blake were --- or perhaps _are_ \--- rather close. There are clearly some feelings between them, and I worry that too much interaction between them, especially with her new marriage, might not be good for the princess or Bellamy Blake.”

Abby stopped walking, surprised. She had witnessed zero interaction between Clarke and her royal guard since Clarke’s return, so she wasn’t sure how to read them. Any time that someone mentioned the guard who’d accompanied Clarke, her daughter became quiet and drawn into herself. So Kane’s notion that there might be feelings, _romantic_ feelings, between them seemed far-fetched.

“Marcus,” Abby wasn’t sure what to say. “Are you implying that this cadet might prove to be a distraction to Clarke, a distraction from her marriage?”

“I don’t necessarily worry about your daughter. I worry about the effect she might have on Bellamy.”

 

* * *

 

It took four days after their return for Bellamy to finally see Clarke again.

He was on duty, having decided that he’d rather be working to distract his mind from his sister. But the thoughts of her death followed him everywhere. When he was standing alone in a hallway or outside the palace gate, it was impossible to keep the images out of his mind. No matter how much he tried to numb himself out, he still felt the lingering sting from losing his only family.

At this particular moment, he had been stationed upstairs on the third floor lookout over the palace’s main foyer. It was a beautiful entryway, decorated in long hanging tapestries and plush rugs and a massive metal chandelier dripping with thousands of glass beads. At this post, all Bellamy had to do was stand three stories above the action and keep an eye out for anyone suspicious making their way through the palace or to the great hall on the other side of the foyer.

But he wasn’t expecting to see Clarke go by.

Of course, he _should_ have expected it. _She lives here now_ , Bellamy reminded himself, when he caught a flash of familiar blonde hair. _This is her home. You’re going to see her, and you’ll have to get used to it._ Yet, as Clarke walked through the foyer, it was like Bellamy was seeing her for the first time.

She wasn’t dirty, or bruised, or hobbling on her bad leg. There was no hood over her face or worn boots at her feet. Clarke Griffin looked every inch the princess she was. She wore a gown in a soft sky blue shade, with an empire waist and little sleeves that fell off her bare shoulders. Jewels hung from her ears and neck, each one catching the light in a tiny twinkle. Her hair shone like gold, half of it pulled up in a fancy updo with the rest spilling in curls down her back.

Despite her perfect appearance, Bellamy noticed she wasn’t smiling. She looked tired and hurried. Her shoulders sagged the slightest, carrying some unseen weight that went along with royalty. At the doors outside the great hall, Bellamy watched Clarke stop, gather herself, plaster on a fake smile, then enter the room.

And just like that, she was gone.

 

* * *

 

Octavia’s fingers were screaming. She tried not to look at them, because she knew exactly what she would see: knuckles pale from exertion, nails broken and raw from climbing, fingers slipping as they struggled to hold her weight.

It was an exercise that Lincoln called the ‘dead hang’. He had found an old piece of piping off the back of another structure, and once he’d deemed it strong enough to support weight he instructed Octavia to jump up and hang on it. For the first few tries she could only last a handful of seconds, so she forced herself into awful practice. Everything in her hands and arms ached, but she could visibly see the growing muscles underneath her sleeves, and each time she lasted for slightly longer.

But this time was harder. Octavia was well aware of the little group of URM soldiers watching her, including that standoffish Monroe girl. They snickered every time Octavia cried out, and she kept hearing little taunts of “ _woops!_ ” as they tried to get her to slip. She focused on counting the seconds in her head, but it was becoming increasingly difficult with an audience of jackals.

They didn’t stop when Lincoln returned from a quick stop in his cavern, impressed to see Octavia practicing. She ignored his compliment and said, “I’ve got to get them off my back.”

“Who?” She jerked her head in their direction and Lincoln understood. “They don’t like you because you’re new, that’s all.”

“I can’t even hear myself _think_ with them right there. And besides, if I _do_ make it into the URM --- and I plan to --- then I don’t want my fellow soldiers to look at me like I’ve got a target painted on my back. Like I’m some little kid to tease.”

“Alright then,” Lincoln nodded, then called out to the group. “Monroe!”

The girl raised her head, not expecting that. “Yeah?”

“You look antsy. Feel up to a fight?”

She scoffed, but her eyes were uneasy. “I don’t think I want to fight _you_.”

“Not me.”

Monroe read between the lines, then broke into a quick laugh. “ _Her?_ ”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll do it.” And it wasn’t until Lincoln was returning to his cavern to fetch the weapons that she added, “I’ll whip her ass _real_ good.”

Octavia kept her distance, trying to keep her anger from rising in her throat. Lincoln had left before specifying what kind of fight, so she was completely unprepared. Meanwhile, the cocky smile on Monroe’s face made her appear ready for anything. Finally Octavia spotted Lincoln returning with a can, a crude paintbrush, and two dull practice swords. _Thank God_ , Octavia sighed with relief. The sword was her best weapon. Besides, it was dulled, so at least she wouldn’t get sliced open.

Lincoln painted a large red circle on the ground, then, oddly enough, proceeded to paint each blade on both sides. He didn’t wait for it to dry before handing the dripping swords to each girl. “The paint will mark a hit. First person to mark three hits on one of their opponent’s vital areas --- neck, chest, or stomach --- wins.”

Octavia squared up opposite Monroe in the ring and waited for Lincoln’s cue. When he whistled, the fight began. Octavia remained light on her feet, standing back and watching for Monroe to make the first attack. Sure enough, she did. Monroe swung forward right then backhanded left, both of which Octavia dodged by jumping aside. She recognized that Monroe was stronger and more experienced, but she was faster. Monroe moved again with a jab, and Octavia blocked it. Seeing her opponent off guard, Octavia made an unexpected swing left and caught Monroe in the shoulder, marking her with the first red paint smear of the match.

Monroe wasn’t happy. She closed in Octavia and caught her at the elbow and hip. Each strike stung, not just from impact but humiliation from the paint. Octavia made one made step and lost her balance, tumbling onto her rear as Monroe made her first strike to the chest. Little red splatters sprayed Octavia’s. Trying to escape another blow, she kicked Monroe’s feet out from under her and scrambled up.

The fight went on like such, one person making a little inch of progress before their opponent would strike back. Except Octavia was wearing significantly more red paint than Monroe. The bruises were starting to really hurt, but she couldn’t let her guard down. Not when her pride was on the line.

Monroe, on the other hand, had the cheers of the crowd at her back and a smile on her face. Octavia realized she was growing overconfident. Her steps were becoming wider and sloppier, and while she was still a menace with the sword, she was growing lazy. Octavia saw her opening and landed the first strike across Monroe’s stomach.

Monroe laughed it off, eyes wild. “You got lucky on that one, palace girl.” She retaliated by swinging for Octavia’s neck, but Octavia saw the room in her step to get close. She leapt forward and to the right, sliding her sword into Monroe’s stomach area again, then dropping backwards to roll away.

Now the crowd had changed, growing quieter and more involved. Monroe’s eyes betrayed the fear in her, and she struck with fury. Octavia received her second strike to the chest with a nasty blow. They were essentially tied.

But Octavia was smart; she noticed the little details. She saw how Monroe favored to use her strength, and now her stance was wider, her legs far apart and center of weight low. Octavia had a crazy, absolutely insane idea, an idea that had a very small chance of even working. But if it _did_ work, it would send a very clear message.

Octavia got right up in Monroe’s face, stopping her opponent’s blade with hers. They stayed there, locked, each pushing back at the other with equal force. Monroe rooted her stance, feet wide… and that’s when Octavia dropped.

Her sword fell from her hand, skittering a few inches to one side. For a brief second, Octavia grabbed onto Monroe’s forearm and pushed herself downwards, before letting go. She extended her legs and folded in her arms, using her the force of her push to slide right between Monroe’s and land behind her. Blood pounding in her ears, Octavia grabbed for her sword as she rose up, one arm pinning Monroe’s back against her chest while the other slide the blade across Monroe’s stomach.

The third strike.

The crowd went silent. Lincoln’s whistle stopped the official match, but neither of them moved. He had to come and wrench them apart, counting three long smears of paint on Monroe’s abdomen. The girls stood rigid still, staring at each other.

“We have our winner,” Lincoln said to the quiet crowd, not quite sure if they would start cheering or booing or just walk away.

Octavia didn’t take her eyes off her opponent, half expecting her to strike again. But Monroe gave a little sideways smile. “Not bad,” she shrugged. “That was an impressive move, I have to admit.”

Octavia nodded, “I like to be unexpected.”

“Not bad. For a newbie, at least.” Monroe had a smug smile on her face, hiding the sense of defeat behind her eyes. She disappeared into her crowd of onlookers and they wandered off, leaving Octavia panting next to Lincoln.

He turned to her, face unreadable as he said, “I think you’re ready.”

 

 

 


	14. Caged

Cage leaned back in his upholstered chair, basking in the luxury of it all. He plucked a champagne grape from the bowl sitting on the table beside him, twisting it in his fingers before popping it in his mouth. “And you’re sure this will work?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. If what my spy told me is correct, what he overheard in the library, then we cannot fail. The boy is instrumental to my plan. He will be perfect.”

Cage sipped his wine, watching his companion pace back and forth in front of the fireplace. “You are certain you want to go through with this? Once you go down this path, there’s no stopping.”

“I’m _already_ down this path. And I cannot stop, not when my country is depending on me.”

“Alright,” Cage nodded. “I’ll find his sister.”

“It won’t be easy. She is believed dead.”

“That’s what Kane and his idiot guards seem to think. If there’s no body, there’s no guarantee that she’s dead, right?” Cage sneered, alluding to the return of the lost princess. “My men will find her.”

“Good.” Chancellor Jaha stared at his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. “Because that Blake boy is the key to making this work.”

 

* * *

 

When Lincoln told Octavia that she had the opportunity to go above ground, she said yes without even hesitating. It wasn’t that she didn’t like The Underworld, but she missed the sunlight and fresh air. Not to mention, getting above ground, even briefly, would get her mind off of her performance review.

With her review scheduled for the evening, Lincoln led Octavia up through the tunnels in the morning. He stopped at a small marker, signaling the start of the upwards path. “If you follow this tunnel up, you’ll reach the basement underneath a series of shops. You can sneak out through the shutters at the end of the basement’s long wall. Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“I’ll be okay,” Octavia reassured him with a small smile. “I won’t be gone for long, I promise. I’ll be back by noon.”

“Noon,” Lincoln nodded, and Octavia was surprised to see real affection in his eyes. In just a week he’d gone from apathetic towards her to actually caring about her. “And you’ll want to be back by noon, to prepare for your review.”

“You’ll help me prepare?”

“Of course.”

Octavia looked down at her hands, eager to go above ground but not quite ready to leave Lincoln yet. He’d grown on her too, more so than she would admit. “Lincoln?” He raised his head as she said his name. “Thank you for believing in me.” Octavia rose onto her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek before pulling herself away and moving into the new tunnel.

Eventually the path ended in an upward ladder, which Octavia climbed with ease. Already she felt so much stronger and muscled from Lincoln’s intense training. She pushed up the heavy wooden hatch above her, ending up on the floor of the basement Lincoln had described. The room was completely empty, but she could already hear the hum of the city outside. It was strangely comforting.

Stepping out onto the crowded streets of Station City was slightly overwhelming at first, for even though The Underworld was a full city in itself, it was so different. Here, there was an abundance of everything: sights, sounds, smells, people, and light. Light was everywhere, and Octavia loved the way it felt on her skin. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed sunlight.

But there was something else, or some _one_ else, that she missed more: “Bellamy,” she grinned as she whispered his name. She assumed he must be back from his journey by now; it had been a full fortnight since he’d left. _He’s got to be worried sick about me_ , she thought with a hollow feeling in her stomach. Of course he’d be worried, this was _Bellamy_. Not bothering to waste any time, her feet flew along the familiar course to their little apartment above a butcher’s shop. She skidded to a stop outside the door, its peeling paint and rusted handle exactly how she had remembered it. Pulling it open, Octavia took the stairs up two at a time before stopping outside her front door. She didn’t have her key --- it had been taken from her when she was arrested --- but the door was unlocked, oddly enough.

“Bellamy?” Octavia called out, entering the largest room which doubled as a kitchen, dining room, and sitting room. The shutters were all drawn and no fire was lit, keeping the apartment in an unusual state of darkness. Octavia turned around, looking for the candle and matches she kept on the shelf beside the front door, when she heard the sound of popping sparks.

“Bell?” She asked again, turning around to face the darkness. Her eyes were adjusting to make out a shadow in front of the fireplace, someone trying to light a fire.

The sparks caught, giving birth to a roaring red fire. In the flickering glow, Octavia finally made out the figure’s features: It’s wasn’t Bellamy, it was Cage Wallace.

“Well,” Cage raised his eyebrows, equally surprised to see Octavia. “Isn’t this convenient?” His thin lips pulled into a sickening smirk as he spoke to the shadows. “Grab her.”

Octavia whipped around, reaching for the door handle when she felt three pairs of strong hands clasp her arms. She tried to kick and fight, but the darkness was disorienting and she couldn’t tell where the attackers were coming from. Her hands were pinned, leaving her unable to reach for a weapon. She tried to think about her training, about everything Lincoln had taught her, but nothing was working. A hand crushed onto her face, pressing a strangely aromatic rag to her nose and mouth, and soon Octavia was fading into unconsciousness…

 

* * *

 

“Ladies and gentlemen of The Underworld,” Miller spoke, commanding the attention of everyone gathered at the base of the clocktower. The town square was full of people, all waiting to hear what they’d been gathered for. Miller stood on the steps of the tower building, not quite used to addressing a crowd like this, but doing so anyways. “For a full decade now we have lived in fear of the Chancellor of Ark. Whether above ground or below it, we have feared for our jobs, our families, and even our lives under the domain of Thelonious Jaha. We have been afraid for too long.”

The crowd murmured with agreement, and this encouraged Miller to keep going. “That ends now. Tomorrow, the Underworld Resistance Militia will rise from the underground, to storm the palace and overthrow Jaha, ushering in a new era for Ark!”

Everyone else didn’t quite match his enthusiasm yet, but he heard a handful of cheers and cries from among the crowd. The faces he could make out seemed excited about the movement. “Now, this will not be easy. This attack has been in the works for months, as we try to plan the best way to seize the palace with minimal casualties or damage. But there will be blood spilled. There may even be lives lost. Yet this is the sacrifice we, as part of this militia, are willing to make, to ignite the spark that will bring change to the whole nation.”

He could clearly hear some grumbling now, from skeptical citizens who weren’t sure they were ready for this kind of war. Miller took a deep breath to steady his nerves, knowing that none of this would work without the support of The Underworld behind his soldiers. “You may be uneasy about this, afraid even. Change can be frightening. You might even think that all of this --- fighting, bloodshed, the loss of life --- isn’t worth the benefits we hope to bring. But let me ask you this: What is more valuable, more precious, than a man’s freedom? The freedom to live your life the way _you_ want to, not the way the Chancellor tells you to. The freedom to make an honest living, to provide for your family. The freedom to walk above ground and out on the streets without living in fear of harassment or arrest for petty crimes.”

He could feel the temperature of the crowd changing, growing in enthusiasm. “Time and time again, Jaha and his cronies have shown zero regard for the common, working class, instead favoring the rich. Well, we may not be rich, but we are strong. We are smart. We built an _entire city_ right underneath the supposedly all-seeing eye of the palace!”

The cheers were swelling up like a wave which Miller rode with passion. “It’s about time we show Jaha that _we_ are people too, and the people have a voice, and a mind, and a sword. And we will use our strength and our unity to bring welcome change to _our_ kingdom of Ark!”

At his feet, the crowd was erupting. Fists were waving in the air, cheers were echoing off the cavern walls, chants reverberated through the empty city streets. Miller’s blood was pumping thick in his veins, fire in his eyes as he looked out at the crowd he’d inspired. They were actually going to do it.

_This is how it begins._

 

* * *

 

“And for the banquet, here are the options for the table linens.” An overzealous palace servant, with the perky name of Marisol, carried two bolts of fabric to where Clarke was standing. All around her, the great hall was overflowing with wedding preparations. Clarke had made the mistake of stopping by to visit her mother in the middle of the chaos, only to get roped into overseeing the preparations while Abby slipped away for a meeting with Doctor Jackson. Clarke couldn’t say no to her mother, only to find out that wedding planning was miserable. Everything was unbelievably tedious and shallow, and it all made Clarke grumpy just looking at it.

“Here,” Marisol held up the fabric for Clarke to see. They were two tablecloths: one was a light green with delicate floral embroidery, and the other was creamy ivory with regal golden swirls.

“They’re both lovely,” Clarke said tiredly.

“Of course they are,” Marisol crooned. “So pick one, Your Highness.”

“Green,” Clarke pointed, eager for Marisol to leave. _Now if only I could make my way to the door…_

“On to the napkins!” Marisol returned, arms full of fabric napkins that all looked pretty much the same.

“I – I can’t,” Clarke finally gave in. She needed to get out of that room soon or she felt like she would explode. “I need some air.” Pushing past Marisol, she maneuvered her way to the nearest exit.

“But… Your Highness!” Marisol called out, but Clarke didn’t really care. She tore out of that room like a bat out of hell, ready to leave the mess of flower arrangements and wedding banners and table settings far behind. It didn’t matter where she ran to, Clarke just needed some space. She meandered aimlessly through the halls, allowing herself the luxury of getting lost. After a serious of random turns and wandering stairways, Clarke ended up somewhere on one of the lower floors, and by the smell of things she couldn’t be far from the kitchens. She passed a large open door and peered inside, the light playing off thousands of bottles and barrels stocking the shelves. It was the palace’s alcohol storage. Reminding herself of the image she was expected to uphold as princess and heir, Clarke responsibly – and reluctantly – dragged herself away, settling instead on a window seat overlooking the main palace courtyard.

For not the first time, Clarke’s mind wandered to Bellamy. It was surprising that she hadn’t seen him at all in the palace, given that there were royal guards stationed all around. In a way, though, it wasn’t _that_ surprising. After the rough ride they had coming back from Trikru, she couldn’t imagine he really wanted to talk to her. Knowing how stubborn he was, he probably requested to be stationed as far away from Clarke as possible.

 _Wasn’t that what I told him I wanted? To never see him again?_ Clarke wasn’t expecting the strong feeling of regret she had over those words.

But not all of the royal guard was stationed at the palace, she remembered. Many of the strongest cadets were joining with the Ark army at the old battlefields, waiting for the inevitable conflict against Trikru. Well, inevitable unless Clarke could stop it. Her blood ran cold at the thought. If she couldn’t succeed in securing peace before it all was too late, she might not just lose Monty. If Bellamy was stationed at the front lines, she could lose him too.

_I can’t lose you too._

“You look like you could use a drink.”

Clarke looked up, blinking back moisture she hadn’t realized was blurring her vision. But even though her slightly teary eyes, there was no mistaking the familiar lanky stature of Jasper.

“Jasper!” Clarke pulled herself out of her seat and threw her arms around her best friend. She didn’t care that she had been mad the last time she saw him. Five days with no sight of him had her worried.

“Someone’s oddly glad to see me.” Jasper said skeptically. She dragged him onto the window seat beside her. “And oddly… teary?”

“I’m getting married tomorrow. What can I say? I’m an emotional wreck.” She laughed it off, but there was some truth to that statement.

“Yeah, I’ve been hearing bits and pieces about that little wedding,” Jasper teased, his words slurring together at the ends. He’d been drinking, his eyes bloodshot. “So how is the lucky bridegroom?”

“Calm and composed, exactly how he should be.” Clarke shrugged. “Wells just… handles things nicely.”

“And how is the lucky bride?” Jasper raised an eyebrow.

Clarke rolled her head back, resting it on the windowpane. “Struggling,” she groaned. “It’s everything about this. The wedding, the idea of being married to someone I hardly know, the fact that I’m going to be _queen_ , the whole looming war and peace promise predicament… One month ago I was living in the woods, sneaking around with Finn, and the biggest worry I had was picking a few pockets for spare change. Now I have so much… but with that comes more than I ever wanted. And it’s not necessarily a good thing.”

“Who would’ve ever guessed? You could have anything you want, anything in the world, except the freedom you miss.” Jasper said, pulling a flask out from his pocket and taking a swig. He offered some to Clarke, but she refused. “Your loss,” he said, sipping another before capping the flask.

“Please, Jasper, you _reek_ of that stuff. I guess some things never change.”

“Or sometimes they change too much,” he said, with a faraway look in his red eyes. “Drinking helps numb it out a little.”

It took Clarke a moment to realize he was talking about Monty. Of course that did nothing to make her feel better. She changed the subject. “You’ll be there tomorrow at the wedding, right? It would be nice to see a familiar face in the chapel.”

“Sure, but only if I don’t have something more pressing going on. Like a good nap.” He giggled at his own joke. “Speaking of familiar face, have you seen Bellamy lately?”

Clarke bristled at the question; it touched a raw nerve. “No, I haven’t.”

“I spotted him in a hallway yesterday, but he was on duty so I wasn’t sure if I should go talk to him. That, and I was offensively sober.”

She hugged her arms to her chest. It felt unfair, that Jasper could drown his sorrows in booze while Clarke, forced to be the perfect princess, had to face them all without any help. Jasper meant well, and he was good for a laugh or two, but he was really doing nothing to help her feel better about anything.

She missed her old life. She missed Monty.

She maybe even missed Bellamy a little.

 

* * *

 

“Tomorrow is a very important day for the palace,” Vincent relayed to the people gathered around the table. A special meeting had been called for the URM, with only those most instrumental to the attack gathered. Miller was at the helm, joined by Vincent, Harper, Monroe, Sterling, Wick, and a few others. Wick had brought Raven, insistent that she should be in attendance. Most notably absent: Lincoln, who’d been invited but wasn’t there.

“Tomorrow marks the royal wedding for Ark. The lost princess Clarissa is marrying Wells Jaha, son of the Chancellor. If we strike tomorrow, it sends a very clear meesage to the rest of the country: That we will not tolerate _any_ Jaha in power.”

“Exactly,” Miller nodded. “Even if his son was on the throne, everyone knows that Thelonious would become the puppetmaster. It would be no better than it is now.”

“Wait, the lost princess?” Harper asked, not having been above ground in a while. “When did that happen? I didn’t even know she was still alive.”

“No one did,” Vincent said. “According to our scouts, she was recently brought back to the palace. She’s been living out in some small town in the south somewhere, under the name Clarke.”

“Hey,” Raven’s ears perked up. “I know a girl named Clarke.” Her mind immediately recalled her last interactions with Finn --- and overhearing him profess his love for Clarke --- and a sour taste filled her mouth. She kept it shut.

Vincent continued. “Most of the palace staff will be distracted with the wedding’s festivities. Miller devised a plan for a three front attack.”

“We will divide our troops up,” Miller said, pointing to a rudimentary drawing of the palace. “There will be invasion teams storming from the front, coming from Station City, and from the back through the gardens. Most of our soldiers will come from here.” He pointed to the sewer tunnels beneath the lowest level of the palace. “This invasion squad will hopefully provide the biggest surprise. Breaking in will require a combination of sheer numbers, strength in manpower, and strategic weapons usage. Wick, you have that under control?”

Wick nodded, stepping forward. “Yup. Working with Raven we’ve designed and built a series of small bombs that can be rigged and detonated from a good distance away. The idea is maximum impact with minimum risk factor.”

“That,” Miller specified, “And we don’t want to destroy the entire palace. Seeing the palace crumble would send a message of anarchy to the rest of the country, and we don’t want to be labeled as anarchists. We want to be taken seriously.”

Raven held up one of the bombs, a small brick of paper-wrapped power sitting in her hand. “Don’t be fooled by its size. This little cupcake packs a big punch.”

“Our main goals are these,” Miller said. “Locate the chancellor and take him into custody, locate the council members and gather them, establish a firm perimeter of URM soldiers to guard the palace from army retaliations, and fly the revised Arkian flag from the top of the place.” He unfurled the flag resting on the table, showing a modified version of the flag they all recognized. Among the changes was a slogan circling the center: “United in strength, united in brotherhood, united for Ark.”

“What about the royal family?” Sterling offered up. “Aren’t they still a threat?”

“Potentially,” Miller answered. “It all depends. Soldiers will be instructed to take any Griffins into custody, in addition to the Jaha son. If they pose a significant threat to the lives of my soldiers, however, they will be regarded as enemies and dealt with as such.” He couldn’t outright say to kill them, but the idea was heavily implied.

They heard a scrambling sound as Lincoln pulled himself over the edge and into the high-up cavern. He was breathing heavily, from climbing or adrenaline. “Octavia, my trainee, she’s gone.”

“Gone?” Monroe furrowed her brow, “Where?”

“She was spending time aboveground,” Lincoln said. “A few hours or so, before her performance review. But she never came back. It’s well past noon, and she hasn’t come back.”

There were grumbles throughout the meeting. Some people wondered why this was even a matter of concern, while others voiced a different sort of opinion. “She knows too much,” someone said. “What if she’s spilling our plans right now? She could be ruining the attack!”

“No,” Lincoln shook his head, “She wouldn’t do that?”

“How can you be sure?” Harper said, face showing worry. “She always seemed… _slippery_ to me.”

“I trust her,” Lincoln insisted. “She wouldn’t just turn us in.”

“I believe you.” Vincent shared his agreement. “I’ve had this girl living in my home since she came here, and I have no reason to suspect that she might be a traitor.”

“She climbed her way into one of our meetings,” Harper reminded him. “She just showed up out of the blue. Doesn’t anyone else find that suspicious?”

“I’ve never seen anyone pick up fighting as quickly as she has,” Monroe admitted, adding to the tense feelings of the crowd. “It’s like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she wasn’t quite the amateur she made herself out to be.”

“No way,” Wick defended her. “Octavia seemed too genuine for all of that.”

“She said she stumbled upon The Underworld by accident,” Miller said, folding his arms. “That she managed to outrun the royal guard and landed on our doorstep. It’s not exactly the most realistic story I’ve ever heard.”

Lincoln approached him, placing his palms flat on the table and leaning towards Miller. “Octavia Blake is no traitor. I am certain of that. More certain than I’ve ever been about anything.”

Miller just stared at the foreign warrior in front of him, wondering if he should trust the most mysterious man in The Underworld, and wondering if one outsider girl was currently above ground making a pretty profit off of ruining their entire attack scheme.

 

* * *

 

“Cadet Blake.”

Bellamy turned as he heard his name called. He was currently stationed in the fourth-floor southern wing, and since there wasn’t anything of great importance in that hall, he was the only guard on duty there. Normally, he would’ve been bored, but lately Bellamy didn’t mind the solitude. So it was unusual that someone would be looking for him.

He saw a man walking in confident strides, flanked by what Bellamy assumed to be guards. These weren’t royal guards, dressed in blue with the palace crest. These men wore all black, with blood red accents on the shoulders and breastplates. The man in the middle, unarmored and with a snarling grin, stopped in front of Bellamy. He recognized the man as the snake Cage Wallace.

“You _are_ Bellamy Blake, aren’t you?” Cage asked, something sinister in his eyes.

Bellamy’s training forced him to answer, “Yes.”

“Good,” Cage nodded, taking a step back and flicking a hand at his personal guards. They sprang on Bellamy, disarming him and grabbing him in a headlock. He bucked, fighting to shake them off until a rag was pressed to his nose and his eyelids became strangely heavy…

 

* * *

 

Clarke peered out her bedroom window, trying to gauge how far down the drop would be. There was no creeping ivy scaling this side of the palace, which would have made it convenient to climb down. Of course, she would end up in the rear grounds of the palace, and sneaking out past the palace wall would be a whole different kind of struggle. On second thought, perhaps running away wouldn’t be worth it.

She knew she couldn’t run away even if the door was left wide open. Clarke understood that fact clearly, folding her arms over her chest and watching her reflection in the glass. She couldn’t leave behind her mother. Not after just returning home. And with Monty hanging in the balance, there was no way she could walk out on the peace deal with Lexa. She had too much that she couldn’t leave behind.

There were three soft knocks on the door. Clarke turned, clothed only in her delicate nightgown but not really caring. “Come in.”

It was Abby. The queen slipped inside and closed the door gently behind her, as though Clarke was actually sleeping and not hovering by her window. “I figured you’d be awake. I don’t remember sleeping much before my wedding.”

“What was yours like?” Clarke asked, softly. “Your wedding?”

“Much like yours. Lots of pomp and circumstance, unnecessarily over-the-top but befitting of a royal.” Abby settled onto the pile of blankets on Clarke’s bed. “But I suppose it was different for me. I’d known your father for many years before our wedding. That made it less frightening.”

Clarke sat opposite her mother, recalling that Abby had come from an upper-class family close to the Griffins, so she had grown up playing at the palace with Jake. Clarke bit her lip, not sure if she should ask her question, but deciding to do so anyways. “Were you in love with dad when you married him?”

Abby’s eyes were full of nostalgia. “Of course I was. He was everything I could want. Kind, smart, gentle, charismatic. And handsome too.” She smiled, lost in a memory. “He had always been my best friend. Marriage seemed like such a natural thing to happen, even without the betrothal. Why do you ask?”

Clarke played with the corner of a blanket. “When I was a little girl, and I was told that one day I’d marry Wells, I always wondered if I’d fall in love with him. And, I think I was waiting for that day, even looking forward to it. Wondering when I’d be able to look at Wells in a different light. Of course, I had to leave the palace before I ever reached that point.” Abby reached to clasp Clarke’s hand. “Wells is a good person, and I’m sure he’ll make a great king, but… If I couldn’t marry for love, the least I’d want would be to be in love with the person I’m marrying.”

Abby watched her daughter’s face carefully, waiting to see if she was going to continue. Clarke shrugged. “I guess it’s a silly notion, when you think about it.”

“Not really,” Abby admitted. “It depends on what you consider _love_ to be. Maybe your feelings towards Wells aren’t romantic right now, but you respect him and trust him.”

“I always thought there had to be something more.”

“Alright, then, what’s your idea of love?”

It took Clarke a minute to respond, digging deep within herself for something true. “It’s changed over the years. When I was younger, I thought it was all about finding someone handsome and dashing, someone who would kiss your hand and sweep you up on his stallion and carry you off into the sunset. Like the heroes of the old stories. Something based on infatuation, or admiration.”

She remembered Finn, of his kind smiles and eyes sparkling with fantastic ideas. “Then I thought love was something else, something reckless. A way to rebel against loneliness, by taking a chance and opening yourself up entirely to another person. Emotionally, physically, whatever. Like a game, where you could get lucky and win, or mess up and lose everything.”

“And what do you think of it now?”

“I think--- I think it’s layered. It’s not just infatuation, or attraction. It’s a chemistry, when two people cross destinies and – for better or for worse – sparks fly. There is a connection. It’s when you trust another person with a piece of you without giving yourself up entirely. It’s the understanding that nothing will be simple, and you’ll probably fight a few times along the way. It’s…” Her voice cracked a little. “It’s not necessarily feeling that you couldn’t survive without that person, but knowing that you wouldn’t trade them for anything. It’s being selfish enough to say _I need you_ and trusting that they’d say the same about you.”

_I need you._

When she felt the first crystalline tear roll down her cheek, Clarke knew her heart was breaking. She’d expected to come to that conclusion over a longer period of time, but it was like hitting herself over the head and feeling that wave of pain. All of a sudden, Clarke understood why her heart was breaking. Because all of the pain, all of the loss she’d carried throughout her life --- from a fractured past and a life on the run --- it wasn’t enough to ice her heart over completely. Her heart still worked. She could still love. As the tears kept falling in total silence, Clarke thought of her love for Monty and Jasper, her two partners in crime who had formed a protective blanket of _family_ for her when she needed it; her love for her mother, who waited with hope for ten years; even her love for her father, who, though he was gone, was never truly far from Clarke.

And the most startling of all was an entirely new love, a love that had been growing for a short while now, but a love that Clarke couldn’t deny. It was thrilling. It was heart wrenching. It was blissful. It was terrifying.

 _Bellamy_.

Clarke broke into a full sob, finally shattering her silence. Abby leaned forward, pulling her daughter in and stroking her hair. “Sshh,” she cooed, trying to comfort her. “It’ll be okay. It’s just Wells, sweetheart. Just Wells.”

But her mother didn’t know. She didn’t know that, while Clarke was to be married to Wells tomorrow, she was finally coming to terms with the fact that she was falling for someone else. When she’d spoken about love, her words seemed to form themselves around his memory. It was like she was painting a picture of him with her eyes closed, only to open them at the end and realize what she’d be creating all along. She thought of him and how -- even though he frustrated her to no end -- he made her feel safe. He made her feel strong. It’s wasn’t like with Finn, where Clarke was living in a fantasy that couldn’t hold up over time. With Bellamy, she felt like she could face anything with him by her side.

He wasn’t perfect. He could be stubborn, and irritating, and even borderline egotistical at times. But that’s what made him Bellamy. And Clarke realized, as she struggled to get a breath in between sobs, that she wanted _Bellamy_.

She pulled herself together enough for words to slip out. “I have to talk to him.”

“Not now, sweetie,” Abby said, gently leaning Clarke backwards onto the bed’s pillows. “You should get some sleep. You’ll be able to talk to Wells tomorrow, _after_ the wedding.” She flashed a slight smile, “The groom can’t see the bride before the wedding, remember? It’s bad luck.”

Clarke opened her mouth to protest, to say that she wanted to speak to _Bellamy_ , not Wells. But the mention of the wedding jarred her back to the present. She was getting married. Tomorrow. Any hope that she could hold for Bellamy, any chance that he might feel the same way about her, all of that had to be snuffed out by the reality of Clarke’s predicament. She was betrothed to Wells. If she didn’t marry Wells, she couldn’t ascend to the throne. The Griffin royal line would end, the Chancellor would remain in control and lead Ark to war, and Clarke could kiss Monty goodbye forever.

But she still wanted to talk to Bellamy.

Abby smoothed Clarke’s hair out of her face, the dim light highlighting the wrinkles in her face. Clarke was reminded of how old her mother was, and how she was still fighting her own body. The last thing she needed was the weight of Clarke’s dilemma on her shoulders, so Clarke kept quiet. Instead, she let the tendrils of exhaustion snatch hold of her and drag her downwards, the image of Bellamy’s crinkle-eyed grin lingering on her mind before drifting off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

When Bellamy came to, his cheek was pressing into a cold stone floor. He sat up, feeling his hands restrained in metal shackles behind his back with a chain bolted to the floor. His blood flashed hot, understanding he was trapped. “Hey!” He cried out, struggled to stand, his chain too short and only allowing him to pull up into a kneel. “Hey!” His throat was dry and raspy, and he had no idea how much time had passed since he’d been knocked out. Mind racing, Bellamy tried to gather information about his location. The walls of this chamber were thick stone blocks, the only light coming from hanging torches far overhead. There were no windows or visible doors. Gray stone covered the entire floor, except a circular wooden panel at the center of the chamber, accompanied by a large wheel. Bellamy had no idea what to make of that.

A terrible groaning sound filled the chamber, and Bellamy spun around to see a cluster of blocks separate from the wall, revealing a hidden door. Following behind a trio of his guards, with their black and red garb, was the smug face of Cage Wallace.

“Bellamy, good, you’re awake.” Cage’s eyes were dark as coal. “Now I can finally begin.”

“What did you do to me?” Bellamy asked in a low growl. “Where I am?”

“I haven’t done anything to you. Well, besides knock you out and chain you up. But, you see, that was necessary. I need to think of my own safety.” Cage spoke as though his actions could somehow be viewed as reasonable. “And, as for our location, I can’t disclose that. What I _can_ say is there’s no use in trying to escape, you won’t find a way. And no one is coming for you. It’s just you and me.”

Cage looked at Bellamy’s chain and frowned. “Oh, look at me, what kind of man am I? Putting another human being on such a short leash, like an animal.” He gestured to a guard. “Fix Bellamy’s chain, please. Let the poor guy stand up.”

Bellamy felt the guard behind him, attaching a new chain to his shackles before removing the other. When the first was removed, Bellamy ran for Cage. He could reach the center of the room, but the chain stopped him just short of his target.

Cage frowned. “No, that’s not going to do, Bellamy. I’m here to talk business with you.”

“What kind of business could I possibly have with you?”

“I have a proposition for you. A mission, so to speak. And given the current condition you’re in now,” Cage sneered at Bellamy’s bound state. “You’re in no position to refuse.”

Bellamy clenched his jaw, raising his head defiantly.

Cage pulled something from the pocket of his vest, withdrawing a pane of glass. He held it up, reflecting the image of Bellamy’s wild eyes. “See this glass? It’s special, a neat find I discovered among the talented merchants of Station City. On one side, it looks like any ordinary glass. On the other,” he rotated it, and suddenly the pane became transparent, “Well, it’s like looking through a window.”

“Why are you showing me this?”

“See, Bellamy, there’s this wedding taking place tomorrow.” Cage began, pacing the floor with his hands folded together. “The little royal bitch returns home, and they throw her the celebration of the century.” He took pleasure in the way Bellamy charged forward, yanked back by his chain and tearing his wrists raw. “Aww,” he purred. “You _do_ have feelings for her. I knew it. It’ll make this all the more enjoyable.

“So, if the little princess marries her betrothed, everything is going to change. I know that. My cushy life of yesteryear will be snatched away from me, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “So, call me selfish, but I don’t want to lose that. Not exactly. That’s why you’re here. That’s why I need you.

“Tomorrow evening, after the wedding, the newlywed princess will return back to her royal chambers, waiting for her husband to _claim_ her.” Cage smirked. “In the meantime, you’ll be there, waiting for her. Just like you’d want, I can imagine.”

Cage received something from his guard, and when he stepped back into the light, Bellamy recognized the shape of a dagger. “This dagger is for you.” Cage made it sound like a special present. “You will take this dagger with you into the princess’s chamber, and you will use it to _kill her_.”

Bellamy stopped struggling, his heart skipping a beat. The muscles in his face went slack. “What did you say?”

“Kill her. Stab her. Slit her throat, I don’t care how you do it. As long as her dead body hits the floor, I’m happy.”

It was like the sensation of ice creeping across his body. Bellamy felt his nerves sparking, but inside was cold. His brain was slow to receive Cage’s words, though he knew exactly what they meant. “No,” he said, hoarsely. “I can’t. I _won’t_.”

“Yes, you will.” Cage’s smile was like a cobra’s. He leaned back, folding his arms together as the portrait of ease. “You will do so because I command you to. And because, frankly, you cannot refuse.”

“You’re wrong.” Bellamy poured the coldness from his veins into his words, cursing his shackles and wishing he could rip at Cage’s throat for even _suggesting_ such a thing.

“I don’t think I am. If you refuse my order, then I will kill your sister.”

Of everything Cage could’ve said, Bellamy would have never guessed that. He couldn’t tell if Cage was really that ignorant, or if he was trying to reopen a raw wound? “Too late. She’s dead.”

“You know, there’s been a lot of that going around.” Cage paced the floor. “But the funny thing about dead people is you can’t really be certain they’re dead without seeing the body, right?” He nodded in the direction of a guard, who moved in towards the wooden wheel and began to crank it. A grinding sound filled the chamber as the wood floor panel split and opened up, revealing the crosshatch of iron bars underneath. Bellamy leaned against his shackles, getting a clear view to the bottom of a deep pit.

At the bottom – filthy, bloodied, and shackled – sat the unmistakable form of Octavia.

It was like he’d been struck by lightning. A roaring wave of emotion overtook him, sending him thrashing against his chains. “Octavia!” He bellowed, animalistic. She was supposed to be dead. He believed she was dead. And yet, here she was, alive at the bottom of Cage’s prison pit.

“Bell!” She called back up for him, and he felt his heart shatter. Bellamy continued to struggle against his chains, even as the wooden panels slid back into place over the pit. He was aware of the rivers of blood running down from his mutilated wrists, but he hardly noticed. Bellamy melted to his knees, crushed, numb from the twisted surprises Cage kept dropping on him.

“You see?” Cage knelt at Bellamy’s level, just out of his reach. “You really can’t refuse, can you? Because if you do -- if you _don’t_ kill Clarke -- then I’ll slit your pretty sister’s throat.”

Cage dug in his pocket again, withdrawing the same pane of glass. “Remember this? There’s a mirror in the princess’s chamber made from this glass. While you meet her with the dagger, I’ll be waiting and watching, with Octavia. If you don’t end Clarke with your knife, then I’ll end Octavia with mine. Sound like a deal?”

“I want to talk to her.” Bellamy’s voice crackled with pain. “I want to talk to my sister.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that. You’re going to stay right here until tomorrow evening, where my guards and I can keep an eye on you.” Cage stood up, taking a step back and regarding his prisoner as though he were a rabid animal. There was pure disgust in his eyes. He turned to his guards, letting them know he was finished here.

One of the black-armored men withdrew a rag, dipping it in a strange smelling liquid and moving towards Bellamy. Cage cut him off with a hand, interrupting to say something final.

“This is how it ends, Bellamy. What’s it going to be? Clarke, the pampered little princess, engaged to be married, a girl you hardly know. Or Octavia, the only family you have left?” He snickered to himself, thinking of a joke only he’d find funny. “Of course, there’s not really any competition there. After all, Octavia’s your responsibility.”

His words were the poison in Bellamy’s wound. The guard moved in swiftly, smothering Bellamy’s nose and mouth with the sickeningly-sweet aroma of the sleeping draft. His eyelids became heavy again, and the last thing he remembered were Cage’s words, drawing up his old mantra that pounded in his head like drums at a funeral.

 _My sister, my responsibility_.

 

 

 


	15. For Better or For Worse

Clarke awoke with Bellamy’s name in the forefront of her mind.

In no way was that really appropriate, given the fact that it was her wedding day. And she was marrying Wells. _Wells_ , not Bellamy. She should’ve been excited, or nervous, thinking about the dress and the celebration and how, twelve hours from now, she would have a husband. But instead, all she wanted was to speak with Bellamy.

When her maid brought her breakfast on a shining silver tray, Clarke could hardly touch it. Her stomach was churning like waves in a storm. She managed to swallow some tea and a few bites of toast before insisting on getting dressed. With the wedding taking place in the late afternoon, she wouldn’t have to be formally dressed for a few hours. Clarke slipped into a casual day dress – causal by palace standards, naturally – and left her room in a hurry.

She didn’t know the first thing about where to find Bellamy. Over the past week at the palace, she had not seen him once. Clarke started with the hallways beyond her chamber, working her way toward the center of the palace and the busiest areas. There were guards stationed all around, but none of them were _her_ guard. She roamed the palace, ducking aside to avoid conversation with anyone who approached her. It wasn’t exactly polite, but dammit, it was her wedding day. With her flushed cheeks, quick strides and wild eyes, Clarke could play the role of a stressed-out bride well enough. Most people left her alone.

She began to run out of ideas. A thought flickered across her mind: _What if he is no longer stationed at the palace?_ Clarke remembered her stinging last words to him, about never having to see him again. She felt her stomach grow heavy. At the time she’d said that, she was too caught up in emotion to think about the effect she might have. For all she knew, Bellamy was re-stationed somewhere far away, and there was only one person Clarke was certain would know where he was.

Luckily, she’d passed Kane in one of the hallways on her way here.

Clarke backtracked, finding the chief general standing on a balcony overlooking the side of the palace grounds. Below him, a division of his royal guards, those stationed along the palace’s perimeter, were going through their daily demonstrations. The division general barked out orders to his guards, who responded by standing and moving at attention. Everything was in perfect military precision. Clarke reached Kane’s side, eyes raking over the guards on the grounds below. She still couldn’t find the one person she was looking for.

“Your Highness,” Kane regarded her with a slight bow.

Clarke nodded in reply. “General Kane, I’m looking for Cadet Blake. Bellamy Blake.” She forced herself to sound regal and in-charge, emulating her mother. “It is important that I speak with him.”

At the mention of Bellamy’s name, Kane furrowed his brows. He seemed skeptical to tell Clarke anything, in the patronizing way that could be rationalized as ‘for her own good’. She waited, baited, for his response. “I’m sorry. Right now, Cadet Blake cannot be reached.”

Clarke settled her hands on her hips. “General, this is _urgent_. And you mean to tell me that a royal guard cannot be reached by a royal?”

“Unfortunately so, Your Highness. Blake’s current whereabouts are unknown.”

“Unknown?” She froze.

“He has seemed to have taken an unexpected leave of absence yesterday, and right now we don’t exactly know where he is.”

Clarke wasn’t sure what to make of that. “He is one of _your_ guards, General.” She said. “Isn’t it your responsibility to know where your guards are when they’re supposed to be on duty? Any lapse in that does not reflect favorably on you.”

Kane overlooked Clarke’s slight insult. “Blake had just recently heard of a close family member’s passing. I assumed that his absence was related to the loss, and I figured it would be better to give him some time to handle this.”

“Loss?” Clarke asked, recalling that Bellamy didn’t really have much family, except…

“His sister,” Kane said solemnly. “There was an incident that resulted in her death, and Blake has had a difficult time with it.” He took a step forward while Clarke’s brain processed the news he’d just shared with her. “I understand if your reason for speaking with him is _urgent_ ,” he said the word almost mockingly, “But right now Cadet Blake has made it clear that he would like space. If you respect him, you’ll give him that much.”

Clarke nodded mutely. She could only imagine the pain Bellamy was facing, having lost Octavia. Any mention of his sister brought a warmth to him, and it would be clear to the dullest outsider that Bellamy loved Octavia with everything he had. Losing her would have broken him. The words ‘broken’ and ‘Bellamy’ were incongruous to Clarke’s mind; they couldn’t possibly sit in the same sentence, let alone be true. So perhaps Kane was right. Perhaps Bellamy wanted space.

Clarke made her way back to her chambers slowly, trudging through the celebratory finery decorating the palace halls. It felt strange; all around her were lavish decorations honoring her wedding, but Clarke felt numb to it all. She was marrying Wells, her childhood best friend. This was her six-year-old dream coming true. She should have been at least a little excited.

But all she could think about was how she’d torn into Bellamy on the boat, how she said she never wanted to see him again and believed she meant it. How he’d lost the most important person in his life, and Clarke couldn’t even try to comfort him. She couldn’t even try to make things any better.

She decided that, as soon as the wedding was over, she would try and find him. Grieving or not, she needed to speak with him. If she couldn’t tell him her true feelings, she could at least apologize for angry words she didn’t mean.

 

* * *

 

Octavia hugged her knees to her chest, hot tears wetting her cheeks. Here she was again, trapped. Only this time her cell absolutely sucked.

Thank goodness she’d learned to overcome any fear of the dark in The Underworld, because her cell was little more than a dark pit. The only light seeped through tiny cracks in the wood far above, and even that cast nothing more than a soft blue haze. All Octavia could see were shadows. She knew the pit wasn’t very wide --- she couldn’t lay down in a straight line if she wanted to --- but somehow the shadows were too big for this space. And she assumed that only half of the shadows she saw were actually real.

Sweat caused her shirt to stick to her back. There was dried blood along her face and arms, and her shackles were heavy on her wrists. In the first few hours of confinement she’d tried to tear her wrists free, but the cuffs were too tight. She thought about refusing food, withering away into a bony skeleton with wrists slender enough to slip out, but she wasn’t offered food anyways so that might become her reality. Even if she had light to climb by, the stone walls around her didn’t have any reasonable handholds or footholds. She was positively trapped.

Which left Octavia alone, with the shadows and all of her demons. First, she thought she could see Bellamy. It was ridiculous, but she swore she saw his face in the darkness. She reached out for him, but he only looked at her with disgust. It was like she was an insolent little child who just couldn’t stay out of trouble. She’d never seen Bellamy stare at her like that. As she called out his name, his shadow faded away.

She saw her mother next. Now Octavia really was a child again, with her mother’s frame looming over her at an inhuman height. She regarded her daughter as filth, as vermin. Octavia was crying, begging for her mother to stop. But Aurora kept pressing the suffocating darkness down on Octavia, like a thick and cloying blanket. Octavia clawed at her closed eyes, but the dark was filling her up and drowning her.

She saw the image of Cage several times. His eyes were blacker than night, as though something had sucked all of the darkness into his irises. He would lunge at her, and she could feel his phantom hands groping her body as she struggled to pull free from his clutches. There was no candelabrum for her to hit him with now.

Then, at some point, Octavia’s imagination conjured up the face of Lincoln. It caught her by surprise. She had him perfectly captured, perfectly memorized. And, unlike the others, he didn’t come to terrorize her. Instead, he knelt down a few feet away, his eyes never leaving hers. “Get up,” he told her, his voice echoing in her ears. “You’re not finished yet.”

Octavia wanted to protest. Her wrists felt like they were made of lead, dragging her downwards. Sleep felt like an attractive solution to her problems. If only her sleep wasn’t so riddled with demons. Perhaps a slumber that she’d never wake up from…

“You’re not finished yet.” The sound of Lincoln’s voice --- pulled from some memory of her training --- dragged Octavia out of the snares of her own mind. She sat up from her fetal curl, rising to her knees. Her breathing was ragged but her heart was strong. She was slowly going insane, but she could still fight. She was still fighting, and she would never stop.

“Hear me, Cage?” She shouted upwards, where the bars hung far overhead. “I’m not finished yet!” Her throat burned as she screamed it with everything she had. “ _I’m not finished yet!_ ”

 

* * *

 

Lincoln stood patiently at Miller’s side, watching the URM’s commander survey the troops lined up in front of him. This group of soldiers was going to rise up through the sewers, making up the underground invasion. Miller had already sent the other two groups into their positions aboveground, giving them the order to move in at an earlier hour than the underground team. Lincoln, one of the strongest warriors the URM had, was naturally tasked with the underground troops. As he tried to clear his mind for battle, he was shocked at how difficult it was to ignore Octavia’s absence. He couldn’t overlook how uncharacteristic this was for her, and he kept subconsciously thinking the worst.

“If I were you,” Miller said, eyes trained forward, “I’d be taking this moment to pray to whatever Trikru gods you’ve got, pray that your trainee hasn’t ruined our plans.”

Lincoln gave Miller a slow, silent stare. He had nothing to say to that.

Miller didn’t misinterpret Lincoln’s silence. “Go, join the other soldiers,” Miller dismissed him.

Lincoln hopped off the step, moving through the crowd of warriors in the direction of the front. Head held high and silent as snow, Lincoln waited for the orders to be given from the commander behind him. After Miller finished making the final checks, he blew the horn that signaled for movement. The team converged on the ladder down into the sewers, hundreds of soldiers following Lincoln in a descent. Inside the large tunnel, the air was thick and putrid and suffocating. But Lincoln moved forward with purpose, letting the light from carried torches illuminate the sewers extending ahead. Soldiers swelled around him, running past and eager for the fight. Lincoln was jostled by one person coming up on his left, and he heard a soft “Sorry” muttered from them as they passed. He recognized that voice.

Reaching out, he grabbed the sleeve of the soldier and pulled them backwards. It was a girl, with dark hair tied back and soot rubbed on her face – the underdweller alternative to warpaint. Her eyes didn’t match her fierce appearance; they were bright and frightened.

“Maya?” Lincoln asked, knowing he was correct. “What are you doing here? I don’t remember anyone clearing you for combat.”

Maya’s eyes darted left, and Lincoln dragged her off to the side of the flow of soldiers. “I’m not going into combat,” she whispered. “I’m going after Octavia.”

“Maya, she’s missing. No one knows what’s happened to her. No one knows where she’s gone.”

“I think I have a few ideas.” This caught Lincoln’s attention. “Octavia told me that, when she was running from the royal guards, she was fleeing Cage Wallace. I think it’s unusual for her not to return from above ground, considering how much her training and performance review meant to her. What if, somehow, Cage has gotten to her again? If she escaped from him last time, that might be a logical place to start.”

Lincoln hadn’t expected Maya’s theory to make so much sense, so it left him impressed. Of course, it also left him confused. His mission, given by Miller himself, was to infiltrate the palace from below and clear the castle of reinforcement guards. But he wasn’t the only fighter assigned to that role. Meanwhile, Maya might be able to slip by in the shadows, but he wasn’t certain she could defend herself if confronted by one of Cage’s personal guards.

“Alright,” Lincoln made up his mind. “Once we break into the palace, I’m coming with you.”

“I can handle myself,” Maya insisted, though a tremor in her voice betrayed her.

Lincoln thought of Vincent, the kind man who never viewed him with distrust or suspicion because of the fact that he’d come from Trikru. If Vincent lost his daughter, he would be devastated. “I owe it to your father to keep you safe. If I can’t stop you from going off, then I can join you and fight alongside you.”

Maya snapped her jaw shut, not sure how to respond. “For Octavia.”

“For Octavia.”

 

* * *

 

As the morning faded into afternoon, Clarke was whisked away by her team of handmaidens to prepare for the wedding. Behind closed doors, the maids flitted around like a cluster of hummingbirds. Clarke was bathed, covered with lotions and perfumes, had her fingernails trimmed and buffed and her hair combed until it shined like gold. A few wisps were pulled back on either side of her head, pinned at the rear with tiny pearl-encrusted hairpins. One of the maids used the pads of her fingertips to apply a soft rose stain to Clarke’s cheeks and lips, bringing color back into her face. If only there was some oil or cream to bring the life back into her eyes.

Clarke stared emotionlessly into the mirror while the maids worked their magic, transforming a worn young woman into something of a regal beauty. Once they were finished working on her hair and face, they unfurled Clarke’s wedding gown.

Even in her numb frame of mind, Clarke had to admit that it was remarkable. The gown was constructed of layers of a light, flowing fabric. It was white, but the bottom of the skirt faded into a gentle rose shade, the fabric delicately dipped in a soft dye. As it transitioned colors, tiny fabric flowers were scattered along the bottom, matching the pink of the skirt. It was like the dress was fading into a pile of cherry blossoms. The neckline was wide and deep, with the straps falling on the edge of Clarke’s shoulders. Spiraling golden cuffs snaked up to her elbows, and the dress was cinched at the waist by an elaborate filigree belt. The wide golden piece was a dizzying mess of loops and swirls, creating a leaflike effect. For the final touch, a slender circlet was placed across her forehead, with a long veil cascading from the back of her head.

The maids took a step back, admiring their handiwork. Clarke hardly recognized the girl in the mirror before her. This wasn’t the girl from the woods, the girl in the cloak who picked pockets and spent her nights indulging on strong homemade moonshine. This was Clarissa Elizabeth in all of her glory, the perfect princess that Clarke had dreamt of growing up and becoming. Clarissa and Clarke couldn’t possibly be the same person, she decided. But if the world needed her to be Clarissa, to be the perfect queen, could she leave _Clarke_ behind?

“Thank you, ladies,” Clarke turned at the sound of Abby’s voice from her doorway. Her mother was also dressed in her finest, wearing an empire-waist gown of navy blue with sparkling silver trim. Abby’s eyes glistened with tears. “You look breathtaking, Clarke.”

“Thanks,” Clarke said, though barely any sound left her lips. Her hands were starting to tremble when Abby swept her up into an embrace.

“I always hoped I’d get to see you walk down the aisle. Now, it appears that I’m actually going to be able to do that.”

Clarke didn’t have the words to express the anxiety in her stomach and the heaviness in her heart, so she simply nodded. It was better to spare her mother from the tumult of Clarke’s current emotional state.

Abby pulled away, drinking in the sight of her daughter. “We should get moving towards the chapel, then.” Her smile was radiant. “We wouldn’t want the blushing bride to be late, now would we?”

Clarke nodded obediently and followed, clutching handfuls of her skirt in fists as she walked. The hallways seemed to stretch on into oblivion before her and she felt like her whole world was spinning the wrong way. Perhaps it was simply nerves, but it was awful. Her stomach was practically eating itself.

As Clarke rounded a corner, she found that the entire palace hadn’t made its way to the chapel just yet. There were servants and waitstaff lingering along the sidelines, watching Clarke with smiles and curious eyes. Some even seemed teary, though Clarke couldn’t imagine why. It then dawned on her that some of the staff might have known her as a child, and – while she couldn’t remember them – her wedding day was a special moment for them too. All the while, Abby kept a gentle hand on Clarke’s waist, guiding her and steadying her along.

Clarke could sense her mother’s presence stiffen as a tall, dark-haired man came into view. Cage Wallace, Clarke recalled. He’d dined with the royal family a few times since Clarke’s arrival, as a personal guest of the Chancellor. Clarke heard grumblings from her maids about Cage, how he followed Jaha’s orders blindly and with unfailing loyalty, how he would sell his soul and stab a man in the back to get what he desired, how he would harass and pursue members of the female waitstaff for pleasure. She couldn’t disagree with the general opinion of him: he was despicable.

Cage stood with his back against the wall, hands clasped tightly behind him. “What a beautiful bride you make, Your Highness.” He bowed his head slightly.

Clarke remained mute, so Abby stepped in. “Thank you for your compliments, Cage.” She could tell that Abby loathed the man too. “Will you be at the ceremony?”

“Unfortunately no. I have some urgent business to attend to. However, I do hope to see Your Highness and her new husband afterwards, at the reception. Please accept my apologies.”

“Of course,” Abby’s lips tightened into a thin line. “It must be important business if it keeps you from the royal wedding. I’m sure the Chancellor will miss you by his side.”

“I think the Chancellor has plenty of other things to worry about instead of me,” Cage spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “With the impending war on the horizon, of course.”

Clarke broke her silence. “When I am crowned queen, there _will_ be no war.” Her words were sharp and pointed.

Cage paused, something slithering behind his beady dark eyes. “Naturally.” He bobbed his head again out of forced respect. “Your Highness, Your Majesty.” He slipped away, as suddenly as he’d appeared.

Clarke spoke under her breath, “As queen, I will insist that he is removed from the palace. I can promise you that.”

Abby smirked at her daughter, gaze twinkling. “Just one of the many reasons why I’m certain you’ll make the perfect queen.”

 

* * *

 

Octavia thought she was imagining it, when the wooden platform overhead split and disappeared. The light that spilled in was blue and not very strong, but it was alien to her. A tiny ringing sound echoed in her personal hell, as a key dropped to the ground. Her eyes went wide at the sight, and she scrambled to unlock her cuffs with it. She squinted upwards, watching a knotted rope be tossed deep into the pit, landing with a _thud_ against the wall beside her. A single command was barked at her from high overhead: “Climb.”

Octavia stood up with shaking knees, hesitantly grabbing the rope. She climbed, the rough fibers bringing warmth to her freezing hands. It wasn’t easy to make it to the top, but Octavia was strong. She pulled herself onto the stone floor of the chamber above, dragging herself up onto her knees.

Three of Cage’s guards stood over her. They lunged for her as Octavia struggled to run off, but they were too quick and pulled her arms to her back. Her heart sank as she felt another pair of shackles clamp onto her raw wrists.

Bellamy was nowhere to be seen.

A sack was pulled over Octavia’s head, robbing her of the dim light she’d just grown accustomed to. It was back into the oppressive darkness, back with the demons and monsters and the slippery edge into insanity. Octavia thrashed her head, trying to dislodge the cover to no avail. It was maddening.

The guards marched her on a twisting course that felt endless. At first, Octavia tried to memorize the turns they were taking, but she lost track. It was disorienting, moving blindly, and she couldn’t sense anything that would help her gauge her surroundings. Instead, she tried to think like a warrior, like Lincoln. She imagined the advice he’d give her, telling her to focus on sounds rather than sights or smells. Her ears absorbed the sound of footsteps, both Octavia’s uneven steps and the guards’ steady ones, and she was able to tell when they left one path for another: this was narrower and more echoing, likely a tunnel.

They stopped after many minutes of sightless wandering. The sack wasn’t removed from Octavia’s vision, but she heard a distinctive voice that dropped her stomach and set her fury ablaze.

“Oh, lovely,” purred Cage in his sickly smooth tone. “She’s here. Time to get started, then.” He sounded far too happy for anyone’s good, Octavia couldn’t help noticing as she was prodded back into marching.

 

* * *

 

“Clarke,” Abby pulled herself in front of her daughter’s face. She spoke slowly, as if talking to a child. “I’m going to walk out now. You’ll come out right after me, when the guards give you your cue. You will be just fine.”

Clarke nodded, mute once again. Her wedding gown felt like a funeral shroud, her belt a shackle and her circlet too heavy of a crown to bear. Her breath hitched as Abby pulled the veil over her face, a gauzy cloud of white separating Clarke from the reality of her future before her. Abby pressed a soft kiss to Clarke’s veiled forehead before aligning herself in front of the doors and waiting for them to be opened. A guard swung the door forward, music swelling outwards from inside the chapel, and Abby disappeared right on schedule.

Clarke’s heart was a drum to her own ears. Behind the curtain of her veil, her breathing sounded a hundred times louder and more unsteady. Somehow, she steered herself into position facing the tall wood doors. Clarke assumed she must look like a mess, probably a thousand shades of green and deathly pale. But the guards didn’t seem to notice, and they opened the double doors on their cue.

The chapel was absolutely flooded with light, the golden light of a setting sun that spilled through stained-glass windows and cast rainbows on the floor. The aromas of flowers and incense floated in the air, creating a smell that was fresh and full of life. Every pew in the chapel was stuffed with people, all sorts of guests dressed in their finest for the royal wedding. Not a single one of them looked familiar. At the end of the aisle, Abby stood off to one side while Thelonious Jaha mirrored her on the other side. The bishop waited at the center with Wells. Clarke watched a smile blossom across his face, as he caught the first look of his bride. She should’ve felt happy, excited, even _honored_ to be regarded the way Wells was regarding her now. But, oddly enough, she couldn’t feel anything right then.

Her feet took slow steps forward, moving of their own accord. Clarke felt a thousand eyes follow her down the aisle, voices cooing in awe and admiration at the sight of the beautiful princess bride. It was everything she’d dreamt it would be, but nothing she could say she truly wanted.

A few rows from the front, sitting along the edge, was Jasper. Clarke was pleased to see he’d sobered up enough for the wedding, the red gone from his eyes. He was even dressed in a fine dress vest and shirt, looking cleaner than she’d ever seen him. Jasper smiled at her a little sheepishly. She felt comforted by having him here with her, but not necessarily better. Seeing Jasper just reminded Clarke of everyone who _wasn’t_ here: her father, Monty, Bellamy…

Distracted, Clarke nearly bumped into the first step at the base of the altar. She climbed slowly, coming to stand at Wells’s side. His brown eyes were enormous and warm, and she wanted to feel safe in his gaze.

“Dearly beloved,” the bishop began. “We are gathered here today to witness the union of Wells Elijah Jaha and Her Royal Highness, Princess Clarissa Elizabeth Griffin, in holy matrimony.”

Clarke felt dizzy, her brain losing focus as she unintentionally lost track of the minister’s speech.

“Into this estate of matrimony, these two persons present seek now to be joined. If anyone may harbor objections to the union of their marriage, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”

This was it. This was the moment when Clarke half hoped someone would stand up and passionately shout, “ _I object!_ ” Deep within her heart of hearts, she wished it would be Bellamy returning the terrifying feelings that Clarke found herself holding for him. But the chapel was silent, not a murmur or whisper to be heard.

And that’s when a distant sound rolled in from far off in the palace. It was a terrible blasting sound, like a bomb going off. It was followed by a nasty crunching and a clattering of cries. Clarke’s head whipped around, the veil twisting along her shoulders. “What was that?” Several members of the congregation stirred, looking around with confused stares.

The bishop’s eyes were wide, and when he returned to speaking his voice carried a slight tremble to it. Clarke couldn’t focus on his words, not when her mind was racing to decipher the odd sounds she’d heard. So it came as a surprise to her when she finally heard Wells’s name.

“Do you, Wells Elijah Jaha, take Clarissa Elizabeth Griffin to be your lawfully wedded wife?” Wells was practically glowing from within, any sign of nerves or anxiety hidden deep beneath a controlled smile. “Do you promise to love and cherish her, in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse as long as you both shall live?”

His gaze shifted to Clarke’s veiled face, pouring out warmth in his eyes and words. “I do.”

The bishop now turned towards Clarke, but she heard the words in slow motion, like the world was moving through molasses. “Do you, Clarissa Elizabeth Griffin, take Wells Elijah Jaha to be your lawfully wedded husband? Do you promise to love and cherish him, in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse as long as you both shall live?”

She felt the scrutiny of a thousand stares at her back and the weight of an entire nation resting on her shoulders. Just three weeks ago, she’d been living far off in the woods, in hiding but largely carefree. Her world had been turned upside-down and rolled over and over until finally landing here, with Clarke at the altar where she was told to be. Where she was _expected_ to be. She remembered the last words Bellamy spoke to her, remembered the reality he’d drilled into her when she was angry and vulnerable. _This is my new life now_. Clarke opened her mouth to speak…

And the doors of the chapel were flung open.

All eyes were trained on a cluster of figures making a dash up the aisle. They were royal guards, and Clarke’s heart sank when she didn’t recognize a familiar face among them. But they were pale and harried, obviously shaken up by whatever had caused the noises of before.

“Chancellor!” One of them cried out, not caring that he was interrupting the most important wedding of the decade. He panted, hands pressing onto his knees as he struggled for a breath. “Intruders at the front gates. Some sort of rebels, sir. They’re also coming in through the rear grounds.”

Jaha strode forward. “What did you say, man?”

“They’re armed. They’ve got bombs, and swords, and they’re fast. We’re trying to hold them off, but there’s significant damage to the front and side flanks of the palace.”

Another guard spoke up. “We don’t know if any of them made it inside the palace, but that poses a major threat, sir.”

From the first row of seats, General Kane rose and crossed to his guards. “Chancellor, this is not to be taken lightly. If the palace is under attack, then we’re putting everyone at risk, especially the royal family, by gathering exactly where they’d expect to find us.”

Jaha showed a glimmer of fear in his eyes. It was a contrast from the usual look of calm and control he always wore. “Are you saying we _abandon_ the wedding and the reception? I will not validate a rebel attack by doing such a thing!”

“Thelonious,” Abby stepped up, chin raised and voice authoritative. “I lost my daughter once in the wake of an attack. If there’s any chance that could happen again, I won’t stand for it.”

Jaha seemed torn, his features muddled with confliction. Finally he barked out, “Alright. Finish the ceremony, then evacuate the chapel.” He turned to the bishop, “And hurry it along!”

The minister fumbled, flipping through his book to remember where in the process he’d left off at. “Of course,” he stammered, cracking under the Chancellor’s pressure. “Do you---”

“Just skip to the end!” Jaha said, a wild look tossed at the wide-open chapel doors behind him. “The end!”

“Yes, of course.” The bishop gathered himself before proclaiming in a trembling voice, “By the authority invested in me by the Chancellor of the kingdom of Ark, I now pronounce you man and wife.” He exhaled the last sentence in one relieved breath, happy to be at the end. “You may now kiss the bride.”

It was all over so quickly. One moment Clarke was standing statue still listening to the news of the guards, the next she was proclaimed married. Her mind was still reeling when Wells stepped forward, lifted the veil off of her face, and kissed her. It wasn’t a bad kiss. It was kind and chaste and gentle, much like Wells himself. It was nice and sweet and comforting, a best friend kind of love. Nothing terrible, but not the kind of love Clarke was looking for. Not the kind that, deep within her heart, she knew she was missing.

When Wells pulled away from the quick kiss, he clasped Clarke’s shoulders. “Get yourself to your chambers, and stay there. You’ll be safe there.”

“Where are you going?”

Wells cast a glance towards his father, who nodded. “I’m going to join my father. He’s prepared me for situations like these, and I’ll want to learn exactly what to do if we’re to be crowned tomorrow.” He smiled back at Clarke at the mention of their coronation, then grabbed for her hand and squeezed it once. “I’ll be back for you as soon as I can.”

Clarke nodded, watching Wells stride out of the chapel flanked by Jaha, Kane, and the guards. She felt a gentle tug on her arm, her mother pulling her aside. “Come, Clarke,” she whispered, as they slipped out a side door behind the altar, leaving behind the swelling cacophony of the chapel for eerie silence of the corridors.

 

* * *

 

Octavia heard a different set of footsteps moving quickly in her direction. She was jerked to a rough stop, still unable to see those around her but deducing that it was another one of Cage’s guards.

“The wedding has been cut short,” the man said in speedy slurred words. “There’s been an attack on the palace… The princess is returning to her quarters now.”

Cage swore, then began to spit orders. “Faster, then! He’s already in place, and we’re nearly to our position. She’ll reach her room any minute now.” Octavia felt the heel of a hand digging into her shoulder, pushing her forward once more.

 

* * *

 

Even moving at a quick pace with a foggy brain, Clarke noticed her mother’s complexion fading away to grow paler and paler. At first she thought it was just from the stress of the current moment, but where Abby’s brisk strides should have brought color to her cheeks, her skin was white and ghostly.

“Mom,” Clarke stopped her, forcing her to turn around. Abby’s lips were pale and her eyes seemed swollen and reddish. “Are you okay?”

A flicker of confusion passed over Abby’s features before she realized why Clarke was asking. She lifted a hand to her own forehead, surprised by how clammy the skin felt under her fingertips. “I--- I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I think I just skipped a medication by accident,” Abby admitted. “I was preoccupied, with the wedding and everything. I’m likely overdue.”

“Then let’s get you back to your medicine,” Clarke decided. They weren’t far from Clarke’s quarters now, but Abby’s rooms were in a different wing.

“Clarke, I can take care of myself,” she insisted, stopping her daughter. “Your room is right around the corner. Go inside and wait for Wells, like he asked you to. I’ll make it to my room and get my medicine.”

“I don’t mind---”

“ _Clarke_ ,” Abby repeated firmly. Clarke wanted to protest, to disclose that she didn’t want to be left alone in the company of her own swirling thoughts. But she could hear shouts as another team of guards ran towards the intruders, the cries coming from the floor beneath them. The urgency of their situation forced Clarke into obeying orders. She gave her mother a quick embrace before slipping into her quarters and shutting the door behind her.

Taking the first few steps into the small entryway, Clarke could sense that it was empty. Of course, her maids had been given the evening off in celebration of the wedding. A few candles lit the entry in a soft golden glow, but it was relatively dark. From deeper within her bedroom, she could hear the crackling of a lit fireplace.

As Clarke returned to her familiar room, she felt the weight of the wedding finally come crashing down on her. She tugged off her veil and kicked aside her heeled slippers, letting her gown pool at her ankles. Clarke strode to the mirror beside her cherry cabinets, reaching for a heavy hairbrush to comb the fancy braids from her curls. She couldn’t help but scoff at her reflection: A princess dressed in a wedding gown, brushing her hair with a gilded, jewel-encrusted brush while the world burned around her. The old Clarke, the Clarke of the forest, would’ve laughed at this girl mercilessly. The new, current Clarke wished she could find such humor in it all.

Clarke almost didn’t see him, the way he blended into the shadows of the room. He was standing just a few steps behind her when her eyes finally spotted his reflection. She spun around.

He looked like hell. His face was ashy and bruised along the jaw and cheekbones. There were dark circles under empty eyes, eyes that Clarke had seen burn with a hundred different fires of emotion. It was like looking at the shell of the man he’d once been. She figured grief could do that to a person.

“Bellamy.”

His name had slipped from her lips before she could stop it. There was an unusual amount of relief laced throughout that word, but Clarke wasn’t ashamed of it. She dropped the brush and hurried forward to embrace him, but he took a step backwards, face unreadable.

“I haven’t seen you since I came back.” She stated the obvious. “I suppose I thought I’d see you around the palace, but I guess not.”

Bellamy’s gaze was trained down on the floor, his breathing forced and unsteady. Something was off about him, Clarke could tell. “Were you at the ceremony?”

He shook his head, inky curls falling over his furrowed brows. When he looked up, his stare seemed hollow. “Look at you. They’ve really made you into their perfect little princess, haven’t they?”

“Queen,” Clarke specified softly, not sure how else to reply to such a comment. “Tomorrow I will be queen.”

Bellamy clenched his jaw, seemingly at war with himself. He took two steps towards Clarke, driving her backwards towards the cabinets again. “Clarke…” his voice faded off. “I—”

“I heard about Octavia.” Her words were blunter than she’d intended, so she hurried to fix that. “Bellamy, I’m so sorry. I know how much she meant to you, and how difficult that must be for you.”

His stare shifted, becoming hard and intense. But he didn’t train it on her, instead staring at his reflection in the mirror like he despised the figure staring back at him. Like he hated himself more than he’d ever hated anyone before.

Clarke reached for his hands, clasping them in hers. They were icy cold. “Hey,” she commanded his attention. “Listen to me. You promised you’d be here for me, if I needed someone on my side at the palace. Well, that works both ways. I’m here for you too, Bellamy. I understand if you’re not ready to talk about your sister. But please don’t shut me out.”

“Why do you trust me, Clarke?” His words were fragile sculptures of glass, threatening to break at any moment. “After everything that happened…”

“You saved my life, Bell. You brought me back here, back _home_ where I was needed. You put everything on the line for your mission, for me.” She blinked, struggling to comprehend his question. “I don’t have a reason _not_ to trust you.”

He shook his head, as though there was something she didn’t understand. “You should hate me. It would be better for both of us if you hated me.”

“Don’t talk like that.” She didn’t know if she should be frustrated or worried. Clarke dropped his hands, and they sprung stiffly to his sides. “You’re my friend, Bellamy. I--- I need you.” There were a thousand other words her heart was aching to release, words that could be better captured in a touch, a caress, a kiss. But that tiny of voice of her conscience held her back, reminding her that she was newly married. Owning up to her feelings now would be asking for heartbreak and pain.

She watched shadows dance over Bellamy’s face, shadows rippling from deep beneath his features and consuming his entire persona. Clarke could only imagine what was ripping him apart on the inside, watching it all unfold from the outside trying to look in. But she couldn’t see it clearly, not over the walls he’d built around himself. No, perhaps they weren’t walls. They were more like bad windows, foggy and shrouded with something unusual that distorted the emotional transparency Clarke had come to expect from Bellamy. “I’m sorry, Clarke,” he whispered in a low tone. “I’m so sorry.”

Something was very wrong. “What are you sorry for?” Clarke asked, begging for him to snap out of it and _see_ her. “For, what, bringing me to the palace? For leaving Monty behind? I’m going to get him back, Bellamy. And I understand why you supported his decision, I understand completely now. What I said on the boat… I didn’t mean it. It was in anger, that’s not me. That’s not how I really feel.”

Bellamy’s brown eyes were wide and overflowing with a twisting swirl of emotions. She saw pain lying at the surface, pain that appeared unbelievably tangible and real by the way he wore it. But there was something angrier, more intense, underneath that. Clarke noticed how Bellamy’s eyes were still trained on his reflection in the mirror… Or not on his reflection. In fact, his eyes weren’t focused on the mirrored images of Bellamy or Clarke – both at the corner of the mirror – but they were staring past those at the center of the mirror. Nothing was reflected there except for a distant view of Clarke’s bedroom. The way Bellamy was glaring at it intensely only made her more concerned for his current unsteady state.

“Bell,” she sighed, desperate. Her hands held either side of his face, trying to drag his gaze onto her. Unlike his hands, the skin under her palms felt feverish. “Listen to me, _look at me_!” His eyes finally found hers, and it was terrifying how they seemed so dark. “If you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you. You’re forgiven, okay? Just… come back to me. Please.”

She lunged forward, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as she pulled him tight to her. Over the last twenty-four hours, her mind had concocted dozens of different scenarios of this scene, what it would be like to reunite with Bellamy and maybe even reveal her true feelings. But in none of them did he feel so stiff and tight as he did now. It was nothing like the feeling of his relaxed body next to hers, sharing the bed in the inn at Walden, or when he’d embraced her out of pure relief in the Polis tent. It was like hugging a marble statue. Still, Clarke buried her face into his shoulder and breathed him in, exhaling as she felt Bellamy’s hesitant arms slip around her back.

None of her scenarios featured Clarke with a strange sensation on the back of her neck, her nerves heightened and sparking. She could feel it distinctly: the cold kiss of metal, the sharpened edge of a blade. She knew there was a knife pressed to her neck, and she knew who was holding that knife in his trembling hand. And, oddly enough, Clarke was unusually calm about it.

One arm fell away from Bellamy’s back, fingers reaching for the heavy gilded hairbrush she’d abandoned before. Still locked in his arms, she slid the brush into her other hand, shifted her shoulders slightly…

And swung. Hard.

The sound alone was sickening. There was an awful _thud_ as the brush collided with the side of his head, sending Bellamy’s body tumbling unconscious onto the floor at Clarke’s feet. The knife dropped from his grip and landed with a metallic clatter than shot up her spine. But Clarke’s swing had been better than she’d expected, and the momentum of the blow carried her forward until the brush collided with the hanging mirror on the wall, and the glass exploded.

It was like a shower of stars. Twinkling, jagged shards of glass went sailing through the air around Clarke, scratching up her face and hands with dashes of red. As the debris settled, Clarke was treated to the strangest sight of her life.

The wall behind the mirror was missing, leaving a hollow cavity that appeared to connect to a servant’s tunnel. Fragments of glass littered the space behind the wall, having fallen heavily on two cowering figures toppled on the floor. Even in their jumbled state, Clarke caught a quick glimpse of them as they’d been: a dark haired man holding a dagger to the throat of a bright-eyed girl in his arms. Taking advantage of the glass distraction, the girl wriggled from the man’s grasp, wincing as her crawling hands met piles of shards. The man seemed dazed, a nasty cut  from a large shard stretched across his forehead and bled liberally. His unfocused eyes were all too familiar to Clarke: it was Cage Wallace.

Scrambling to her feet, the girl caught sight of Bellamy’s crumpled form. “ _Bell!_ ” She cried out, climbing through the hole into Clarke’s room as Cage rose up into standing. There was pure panic in his eyes now. As Cage turned on his heel and dashed down the tunnel, Clarke hopped in and broke into a sprint, every fiber of her body screaming at her to follow Cage.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	16. Empire of Our Own

Octavia watched the scene unfold with her breath caught in her throat, right around where Cage’s blade was hovering over her skin. Through the special mirror, her gaze never left Bellamy’s face as she tried to read the emotion written there. His eyes were dark and shadowy and intense, but very guarded. Even _she_ couldn’t tell what he was going to do, or how he would choose.

Then it all happened so fast. Clarke’s fingers pulled up a gilded golden hairbrush, which she swung hard against Bellamy’s head. Octavia watched her brother’s body go slack just before the swinging brush hit the mirror and shattered her world. It was like a bomb going off. She felt large chunks of glass shoot past her body, one catching her cheekbone but leaving her mostly unharmed. Octavia fell backwards, still caught in Cage’s locking embrace, wincing as the impact knocked the wind out of her. She ducked her head as the rain of glass fell around her, not releasing her breath until she watched Cage’s knife fall from his hand and skid onto the floor.

Octavia pushed against his arms, relieved to feel them give. Slipping out, she noticed a nasty red streak across Cage’s forehead and a foggy look in his eyes. Good. _That bastard deserves pain_ , she told herself.

Then she looked through the empty frame of the mirror, where the newlywed princess stood with a dumbstruck face. Recognition slowly crept over her pretty features at the sight of Cage. Bellamy was slumped at her feet.

“Bell!” Octavia cried out, eyes wild. Grateful to have strong shoes on, she stepped high onto the edge of the mirror’s frame and leapt into the princess’s room. She winced, her hand catching broken glass as she climbed through. Ignoring the bleeding, she was vaguely aware of Clarke slipping behind her into the tunnel, and when Octavia whipped her head around both Cage and Clarke were gone.

She dropped at Bellamy’s side, turning him gently onto his back. Underneath his curls a large purple-red welt was rising up where Clarke’s blow had hit him. Pressing her ear to his chest, she heard the low steady drumming of a heartbeat and felt a slight rise and fall of his breathing. Octavia rocked back into sitting, relieved that he was at least alive.

Her gaze combed over his body, the smallest of details not going unnoticed. She saw the dark circles under his eyes, the cracked skin of his lips, the angry red rings around his wrists. He was worn and beaten from Cage’s imprisonment. And that was just what she could see on the _outside_.

Bellamy stirred, a faint moan slipping past his lips as she shifted in his unconsciousness. His eyebrows furrowed but he didn’t wake up. Octavia leaned close and brushed her hand through his dark hair. “Hey, big brother,” she cooed, not sure if he could hear her or not. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I promise.”

He shifted again, eyes moving beneath closed eyelids but still unresponsive. Behind him, Octavia heard the doorhandle rattle as someone opened Clarke’s door. Octavia flung herself over Bellamy’s body to shield him.

“Your Highness?” A maid slipped through, calling for Clarke. She stopped, eyes huge, when she saw Octavia and Bellamy instead. “What is this…?”

The words came out in a rush, “Get a doctor, get help! He’s hurt.” She sat up, eyes trailing back down to Bellamy. “He needs help.”

The maid nodded, expression wary but words true. “I’ll fetch someone to get him to the infirmary.” She disappeared, leaving Octavia alone with her brother slumped on the floor.

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke’s stockinged feet moved surprisingly fast on the damp stone floor of the tunnel. Even the gauzy layers of her long wedding gown weren’t enough to hold her back. Cage started off with a decent distance between them, but he was wounded and she was catching up. At some point she became vaguely aware of the heavy hairbrush she was still holding in her hand. Cage turned a corner and Clarke followed, entering a longer straight tunnel. She made up her mind. Clarke stopped – hoping that the second of pause wouldn’t cost her a good shot – drew her hand back and threw the brush.

In her mind, it was like throwing a knife. But the brush was thick and clumsy, so it was a wonder that it left her hand in a wide arc and hit Cage square on the back of his neck. He dropped hard.

Clarke heard footsteps from the other end of the tunnel, watching as a pair of royal guards rounded the corner and take in the sight before them. Their faces showed confusion. “What the---?”

She kept away from Cage, shouting, “Arrest that man!” The guards approached his collapsed form cautiously, and one of them reared back when he saw the face.

“But, it’s… it’s Cage Wallace.”

“I was almost just _killed_ , and that man played a role in it,” Clarke said. “Take him to the prisons until I can deal with him.”

When the guards heard Clarke say _killed_ , that seemed to snap them out of their hesitation. They disarmed Cage, cuffed his hands and dragged him off out the other end of the tunnel. In their haste, they forgot about Clarke entirely. She stood alone, listening to the echoes of the tunnels as her breathing returned back to normal.

Clarke slumped to the ground without really thinking about it. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware of what she must look like: wedding gown messy and windblown, hair wild and cuts from the glass dotting her face. No wonder the guards were hesitant.

But all of that paled in comparison to how she _felt_ on the inside. That’s where the real mess hid. Bellamy, the one person she wanted to trust more than anyone, had just tried to kill her. _Kill her_. Her brain wasn’t sure what to do with that idea, it seemed impossible just thinking about it. This was _Bellamy_. Clarke recalled how he wouldn’t let her out of his sight on the way back from Tondc, how he jumped to her rescue at the pool and how he never stopped worrying about her in Polis. And now, when they return to the palace, he disappears for a week and shows up on her wedding night to kill her?

_None of it makes sense_ , she told herself, as she numbly opened and closed the fingers of her right fist, the one which held the hairbrush. The offensive weapon was laying a few paces away from her, its shiny surface like a tiny candle flame in the dark of the tunnel. Clarke tried to erase the awful sound of the blow from her mind, with the feeling of the brush colliding with Bellamy’s skull. It was enough to make her stomach turn.

_And I don’t even know if he’s okay_ , she realized, gasping for a shaky breath. Her mind replayed the seconds following the blow, when the mirror erupted and Clarke caught Cage with that girl on the other side. _Who was she?_ She remembered how she had called out for Bellamy, how she had scrambled through the mirror’s hole just as Clarke broke into the tunnel. How she had called him “Bell”.

Clarke was pretty certain no one called him “Bell”. Except…

“Octavia.” The name was a shadowy whisper of a word. Octavia Blake was supposed to be dead. That’s what Marcus Kane had told her. That’s why Bellamy disappeared. But Cage’s association with this murder attempt threw a knot in everything, making the rational seem irrational and vice versa. Her mind struggled to recall the images she saw just after hitting the mirror, when the glass shards muddled her vision. Cage’s arms were wrapped tight around the girl’s shoulders in a headlock, with his hand hovering over her neck…

…A knife hovering over her neck.

_So, what if that was Octavia_ , Clarke reasoned with herself, rising and taking slow steps in the direction from which the guards came. _And what if Bellamy knew her life was on the line_. Trying to murder Clarke seemed far beyond Bellamy, and she couldn’t imagine what would possibly push him to even try… Unless Octavia was in danger. Bellamy would do anything to save Octavia.

Clarke felt something pressing into her scalp. She reached up, pulling a piece of glass from her hair, about the size of her thumb. She almost tossed it away when something strange caught her eye. One side was reflective, like any mirror should be. But the other was transparent as a window pane.

_What… the… hell?_

In that moment, the pieces fell into place. It was like an avalanche bringing the truth and sending it crashing down onto her: Bellamy’s strange behavior, the confliction in his eyes, Cage with the girl and the knife, the possibility of Octavia being alive.

The way Bellamy couldn’t take his eyes off the mirror, but avoided his reflection. Like he was trying to look _through_ the mirror at whoever watched from the other side.

“It was a setup,” she understood, nearing the end of the tunnel. This wasn’t some freak incident, some bizarre murder attempt. This was a well-planned attempt on her life, and Cage Wallace seemed to be behind it all.

But Cage was a snake, Clarke knew that. He wouldn’t try something so risky if there wasn’t something big in for him on the other end. Someone made him an offer, an offer he simply couldn’t pass up.

And Cage Wallace only took orders from one person.

Clarke left the tunnel and entered the brightly-lit hallways, looking like the crazy-eyed bride from hell as she stormed down the corridors to find the Chancellor.

 

* * *

 

 

“Stand back!” Raven warned, checking her rigging once again before ducking around the corner. Take a quick breath, her fingers flipped the igniting switch, lighting a spark, and she waited for the blast.

_BoooOOOOOMMM!_

Raven couldn’t help but feel proud, knowing that her bombs were an undisputed success. She felt rubble float through the smoky air behind her in the aftermath of the explosion. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught the eye of Wick and he nodded. They were careful in their placement of the bombs, aiming not for casualties but for strategic damage to the palace’s outside fortifications. Their job was to help break through the defenses to get U.R.M. soldiers inside.

“Come on,” Wick waved her forward. The tower before them – South Tower – was close to falling. Soon, it would be overcome by their soldiers and propel the U.R.M. forward… if she could succeed in planting the final bomb.

Raven crossed the courtyard, senses on high alert amid the chaos surrounding her. She was crossing a battlefield. Arrows whizzed by and she heard the distinctive clash of swords. The air was thick with battle cries and cries of the wounded and the echoing reverberations from the bombs. It even smelled like war: a heavy stench of sweat and blood and something putrid from the smoke of the explosions.

Raven dropped into a crouch behind a barrel next to Wick. He pointed at the tower ahead of them. “There,” he said, where Raven could make out some metal mechanism through a window. “That’s where the last bomb needs to be.”

“Of course. That’s the wheel that keeps the south door locked, right?” She didn’t really need Wick’s confirmation; she knew she was correct. “Blow that open and we’ll have a path right into the palace grounds.”

“Exactly,” Wick nodded. “The door itself is designed to hold up in an invasion. But the mechanism holding it shut? Not so much.”

“Perfect.” Raven’s eyes narrowed, locking onto her target. She rose from her hiding spot, moving forward until Wick’s hand grabbed her leg and stopped her.

“What the hell are you doing?” He asked.

“I’m getting to that tower, what does it _look_ like I’m doing?”

“We’ve got to be careful. Our target is located on the edge of the tower about halfway up. Blow it up without thinking properly and you could send the whole tower crashing down on your head.”

“Well, then, how do we do it?”

Wick hesitated, a frown crossing his face. “The tower blueprints we had in The Underworld were outdated. I didn’t know the target was so close to the edge of the tower’s supports. If we try to simply disable the mechanism, it’ll be able to be fixed too quickly and we may not get the window we need to get soldiers through.” He spoke carefully through his thought process. “But if we just blow that thing to hell, then there’s no guarantee we make it out.”

Raven understood the risk, but the words bounced off her harmlessly. “We still have to try.” This time she pushed past Wick’s grip, slipping forward into the empty doorway to the tower’s entrance.

“Raven!” She heard her name called from the other direction, seeing Sterling approach from the smoky shadows. He was trailed by dark-haired girl Raven vaguely remembered as Mel. He motioned towards the tower. “Going up?”

An arrow whizzed past them, leading Raven to tuck deeper into the doorway. Sterling and Mel did the same, with Wick following suit. “Yes. The mechanism that’s locking the doors is up there, and that’s my last target.”

Sterling tossed a quick look at Mel, then said, “We’ll cover you.” The two of them approached the battered door first, Sterling armed with a sword and Mel with a crossbow. He kicked open the broken lock, waiting for retaliation that never came. Sweeping the entrance, he called out, “Clear.”

Sterling led the way, followed by Mel, Raven, and finally Wick. They climbed the winding staircase, careful to watch their step for debris or missing slats from the damage done throughout the tower. There was one lone guard on the top platform guarding the mechanism, and Mel caught him with an arrow to the leg. Their instructions were to shoot to incapacitate, not to unnecessarily kill.

“Go to town,” Sterling said, sweeping the platform for no other immediate threats. Mel hovered over the injured guard while Wick and Raven went to work unpacking their final bomb. By now, they’d had enough practice. Wick carefully pulled the protective layer from the paper-wrapped explosive, sliding it into place within the deepest part of the metal mechanism. With nimble fingers Raven slid the ignition fuse from the bomb outwards, careful to lace it in a way that wouldn’t catch anything else on fire and therefore divert the spark.

“Hurry up, guys,” Sterling warned, eyes peering out the window at the courtyard below. “I don’t think they can hold off reinforcements much longer.”

“Ready,” Raven answered, pulling her hands away from the fuse and backing up. All she had left to do was run the wire as far from the bomb as possible. Her eyes raked the platform, trying to find a suitable place to spark the bomb from. Wick did the same.

“What about the window?” He pointed, suggesting that they run the wire out the window and try to ignite it from below.

“It isn’t long enough,” Raven shook her head, regretting not having extended the wire even longer when they designed it. They were already pushing the limits of functioning technology.

“Then we’ll have to run it down the stairs.” Wick saw no other option, and Raven could hear the defeat in his voice. The fuse would only reach about a quarter of the way down the winding stairs, and someone would have to be there to light it.

A loud sound came from overhead. Dust fell from the roof of the tower, and Sterling swore. “They’ve probably hopped from the wall to the roof.” He hissed over his shoulder. “Get downstairs.”

“Sterling, we need to light the bomb,” Raven insisted.

“Light it as soon as we secure this tower. Get downstairs and wait it out. I’ll cover you until it’s clear.”

“I will too,” Mel said, stepping forward.

“No, Mel. I’ve got this. Get downstairs.”

“But---”

More dust trickled down, accompanied with a pattering sound from above. “Go!”

Mel’s dark eyes were brimming with reluctance, but she nodded anyways. She reached for Sterling’s empty hand and gave it a squeeze, a halfway smile on her lips. Then she turned for the stairs. “You heard him, down!”

“Come on,” Wick nudged Raven’s shoulder, getting her to move. She bumped into Sterling as she left the platform, stumbling. The wire slipped from her fingers and she left it on the stairs, hating the idea of leaving Sterling alone to cover them. Once outside, Wick led them under a small outcropping in the fortification walls.

“How do we know when it’s safe to go back up?” Raven asked.

“I’m sure Sterling will give us a sign,” answered Mel. Her face was hard and steely, seeing something that Raven didn’t.

“Hey,” Wick flashed Raven a reassuring grin. “We’re almost there. Our job is almost done.”

“Yeah, but the battle doesn’t end with us getting inside the palace. There’s still plenty to do on the other side of this wall.”

“At least no more bombs, right?”

“I guess so,” Raven said, absentmindedly slipping her fingers into her toolbelt pocket, reaching for the striker she’d used to ignite the rest of the fuses. Her muscles clenched on empty air. “Wait, Wick do you have my striker?”

“No, I gave it back to you.”

Raven dug for it in her other crowded pockets, but she didn’t feel the familiar shape of the tool she was looking for. “Maybe it fell out…?” She wondered aloud, until her mind flashed back to leaving the platform, when she bumped right into Sterling on her way down.

“Dammit!” Sterling was a thief. A really good one, too. He’d swiped the tool from her pocket without her even noticing. Raven stood up.

“Raven, don’t!” Mel called out.

“He’s going to spark the bomb,” she said, understanding why he stayed behind. Understanding the heaviness in Mel’s eyes. “He’s sacrificing himself to blow the door.”

Mel was right at Raven’s back. “Sterling’s fast. He can make it out in time.”

“I know how fast those fuses run, Mel. And I’m telling you, you don’t---”

The tower erupted.

Chunks of stone bricks went ricocheting through the air, and the blast alone was enough to knock Raven off her feet. A thick haze of yellow-gray smoke hung heavy in the air with a sour smell to it. As the smoke began to clear, Raven became aware of a large piece of the tower’s wall resting on her left leg. The fact that it didn’t hurt as badly as it should have, judging by the size of the stone, was a bad sign.

The entire side of the tower was blown clean off. Raven heard someone calling her name, watching as the form of Wick hobbled through the dust.

“Over here!” She cried out in a weak voice. Wick looked awful, but at least he was standing upright and moving. His eyes locked onto hers and he swooped in.

“Holy ----” His curse faded away as he took in the sight of Raven half-crushed under the rubble. Squaring up beside her, he gripped the piece and pulled with all of his weight. Luckily, Wick was strong and the rubble rolled off. It was then that Raven felt the jolting pain searing upwards from her leg.

“ _Ahhh_!” She cried out, fists clenching. Wick ducked to her side and slipped an arm around her back, helping her stand.

“Can you walk on it?”

Raven tried to, her leg buckling underneath her. Wick caught her just in time. “I—I can’t,” she stammered, panicking. “I can’t move it.”

“It’s okay,” Wick tried to reassure her, adjusting his arm to help support her weight. “We’ll figure something out. I promise.”

Raven had to wonder if she hit her head after the explosion. Was _Kyle Wick_ really trying to _comfort_ her?

The silhouette of Mel made its way slowly towards them, blurred by the settling smoke. Emotion was written all across her scarred-up face. “We lost Sterling.”

“What?”

“In the blast. I found his body, or what’s left of it.”

“I knew it,” Raven whispered. Her eyes brimmed with tears, remembering Sterling’s easygoing manner and kind smiles. He was a good person, even to the end.

Mel wiped moisture from under her eye, putting on a brave face. “Come on. The gate’s down, and we’re not finished yet.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bellamy’s head hurt like a bitch.

It’s the first comprehensive thought he came to, as he began to wake up from his unconscious slumber. There was a throbbing on his temple that felt like someone was repeatedly kicking his skull from the inside. His entire head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, dragging him down into the mattress of the infirmary cot. His brain struggled to connect the dots as to how he ended up here.

As he opened his lazy eyelids, the form of Octavia materialized in his view. At first, he wasn’t sure if he was simply imagining her. But, growing in clarity, he could make out her scrapes and bruises and all the fine little details that made her human and perfectly mortal.

“Hey, Bell,” she said softly, reaching for his limp hand and giving it a squeeze. He focused his energy on squeezing back. “You’re in the palace infirmary. You got a pretty nasty hit to the head, and the doctors call it a bad concussion. You’ve been out for the last twenty minutes. It might take you a while to adjust.”

Screaming at his muscles to move, Bellamy slowly lifted his free hand to his head and grabbed a fistful of his hair. “What… the _hell_ … happened?”

Octavia gave a smirk. “I should’ve known you’d come to sooner than most people do. You’re strong like that.”

Bellamy waited for his response.

She bit her lip, trying to avoid his question but ultimately failing. “You were hit in the head… by the princess.”

“Clarke.” Her name passed a lightning bolt through his body, springing his eyes open and igniting his nerves. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, I --- I guess so?” Octavia didn’t know how to reply. “Last I saw her she disappeared into the tunnel after Cage. She’s not up here, so I’m assuming she’s fine.”

Bellamy’s fuzzy brain finally cleared enough to recall the last time he saw Clarke, when she offered him blind forgiveness and pulled him into her embrace. He also recalled the trembling dagger he held to her neck, feeling as though his entire world balanced precariously on the tip of that blade. His voice was low and cracking. “I tried to kill her, O.”

“You didn’t have a choice,” Octavia insisted, remembering how visibly upset her brother was in the princess’s chambers. “Cage was going to kill me if you didn’t.”

“We always have a choice.” Bellamy knew the words might sting; he was implying that he was actually considering choosing Clarke over Octavia, which he definitely was. But if it made any mark on Octavia, it didn’t show. There was something about her that was so different, he could see it now. He looked beyond her new fierce clothes and braids, past her muscled body. There was an edge in her eyes and intensity in her presence, like the aura of a warrior.

“Now,” he grumbled, trying to push himself up higher on his pillow. “Would you mind telling me where the _hell_ you’ve been?”

“Bell…”

“I thought you were dead, O! Kane told me you were dead.”

“Kane didn’t know anything.” Octavia settled in her seat, folding her arms and taking a deep breath before plunging into her story.

 

* * *

 

 

The Chancellor wasn’t in the chapel, the great hall, or his private chambers. Fortunately, Clarke was smart enough to know he wouldn’t be there. Taking into account the chaos happening outside the palace, Clarke made a beeline for a small, hidden, highly-fortified room known as the War Room.

Clarke made it past layer upon layer of locked doors and palace guards, forcing her way past them with a raised chin and a glare of pure ice. She walked like a living nightmare. And when she entered the final door, reaching the War Room, she took pleasure in the look of surprise and brief fear that crossed Jaha’s features.

“Your Highness?” He asked, obviously not expecting her intrusion. He rose from his seat at the far end of a long table, which was littered with maps and scrolls. Kane was pacing along the windowless walls, his brow furrowed. The queen also sat at the table, eyes wide and taking in her daughter’s disheveled bridal appearance.

“Clarke?” she asked, “What are you doing here?”

Clarke kept the door behind her open, having ordered the guards stationed in front of it to follow her lead. She lingered towards the entrance, keeping distance between herself and Jaha. She spoke without a hint of amusement or warmth in her tone, “I was almost assassinated, just now, in my bedchamber.”

“What?” Abby’s voice hid a shriek beneath it.

“Are you alright?” Kane asked.

“I’m fine---”

“And the assassin?” Jaha spoke.

Clarke turned her head slowly towards the Chancellor, gaze burning. “He has been taken care of. I have reason, _and_ evidence, to believe that this was not an isolated event.”

“Clarke,” Abby’s voice was full of concern. “Sit down, take a breath. You look like death.”

“This was a deliberate, calculated attempt on my life… and I believe I know who orchestrated it.”

“Your Highness,” Kane offered. “If you would, allow my men to handle the investigation. I’m sure you’re upset and understandably shaken-up by the incident…”

“I am fine!” Clarke cried, slamming her fist against the wall behind her. She took a breath to steady herself. “The assassin I encountered was acting under the forced command of Cage Wallace. I caught him observing the entire incident through a one-way mirror hanging in my room. Cage has been apprehended.”

“Cage Wallace,” Abby hissed. “I knew that man was no good. I’ve always known.”

“But why target the princess?” Kane asked to the rest of the room. He folded his arms in thought.

Jaha slowly pushed out of his chair.

“As far as I know,” Clarke said, “The only reason Cage was even living at the palace in the first place was because of his close friendship to the _Chancellor_.”

Abby turned to him. “Thelonious, what do you make of this?”

Jaha blinked twice, calculating his response. It didn’t go past Clarke unnoticed. “A terrible betrayal, truly terrible.”

“That’s very interesting, Chancellor, but I think there’s another betrayal at play here.” Clarke took a step forward, anger coursing through her veins. “Correct me if I’m wrong, _sir_ , but if I were to die after my wedding – even almost _immediately_ after my wedding – your son could still ascend to the throne as king. Right?”

Jaha’s nostrils flared. “Are you insinuating that you believe _I_ had a hand in this assassination attempt?”

“I am. But do you want to know what the best part is?”

Jaha took a step backwards.

“The joke’s on you, Chancellor. When you rushed through my wedding ceremony, skipping right to the convenient end, you forgot one little detail: I never said ‘I do’. So, under the law, I never gave my full consent. _I’m not actually married_.”

In one moment, Jaha stood like a stone statue. In the next, he spun in a flash and ran to the wall behind him. He pounded on it in a special pattern, revealing a hidden exit. Except a trio of royal guards were already waiting for him on the other side. He was trapped. At Clarke’s command, they didn’t hesitate to cuff the Chancellor’s hands behind his back.

“Clarke!” Abby cried, throwing herself from her seat. “What are you doing?”

“This could be interpreted as an act of treason,” Kane cautioned, “Against the Chancellor!”

“He has already committed treason against the royal family!” Clarke said. “For planning an assassination attempt against the heir to the Arkian throne, with every intent of securing the throne for his son and bloodline.”

Jaha struggled against his restraints, “Uncuff me, goddammit! I am the Chancellor, I command you to!”

Another guard ran into the room from the hidden exit. He addressed Clarke. “Your Highness, Cage Wallace just confessed. He insists that he acted upon the Chancellor’s orders, and says he has personal guards as witnesses who can testify to it.”

Jaha froze, understanding there was no way out of this one.

“Looks like your friend really _did_ betray you after all,” Clarke said coldly. To the guards, she ordered, “Take him away.”

Once Jaha was escorted from the War Room, Kane broke the silence. “What about his son?”

“Clarke, Wells couldn’t have known,” Abby insisted. “I know you might think he had some part in this, but it’s only Wells. He couldn’t have---”

“I don’t believe Wells knew about this,” Clarke said honestly. She remembered the unabashed kindness and affection in his eyes. Something that pure couldn’t be faked. “I think he is innocent. But his father isn’t.”

“And what of the guard who tried to kill you?” Kane asked, his voice firm and all business. “Who was he?”

Clarke struggled to say his name. “Bellamy Blake.”

“The one who brought you home?” Abby gasped.

Clarke nodded, then rushed to say. “But I don’t think he acted without Cage’s strong influence. I believe, one-hundred percent and fully, that he was put up to it, forced into it in order to save his sister’s life.”

“But Octavia Blake is dead,” Kane insisted.

“No, she’s not. I saw her, and she was being held by Cage with a knife pressed to her throat. So that, if Bellamy didn’t kill me, Cage would proceed to kill Octavia.”

Kane paused for a moment before speaking to the queen. “I know this cadet rather well, Abby, and I know how much his sister means to him. She’s all the family he has left in this world. So it makes sense that he’d do anything to protect her.”

“At the expense of my daughter?” Abby said, pain in her eyes. “At the expense of the royal heir?”

Abby’s words reopened the nagging wounds on Clarke’s hardened heart. She swallowed it down. “That is a conversation I will have to have with Bellamy myself.” Clarke redirected her focus to the papers on the table before her. She expected to see diagrams of the palace fortifications, or lists of ways to handle the rebels. Instead, she was surprised to see notes on Trikru and one large map of the old battlefields.

“What is this?” She said, drawing close to read a page of scrawled script on Ark’s hostile neighbors.

“We just received a message from our forces at the border,” Kane explained, his voice serious. “A high-ranking Trikru official was killed earlier today, just outside Polis. Her name was Anya. They claim it was an Arkian assassin who did it. We don’t know who sent that assassin, but we _do_ know that Trikru’s forces have increased significantly at the battlefields, and the Commander herself is there. They plan to attack at noon tomorrow.”

Silent, Clarke sunk into the seat at the head of the table where Jaha sat. “What are you going to do, General?”

“I will be setting out at sunrise with another reinforcement of troops. We ride for the battlefields.”

Clarke nodded. “I will come too.”

“Absolutely _not_.” Abby said, her voice hard.

“I was able to bargain with the Commander before, perhaps I can again.” Clarke shut her mother down. She was shocked when Abby didn’t have a response to that.

“Your Highness,” Kane cautioned, “A peace bargain may not be possible. Trikru is thirsting for war, for Arkian blood in return for the official they lost. They are calling for it: _Jus drein jus daun_ \-- blood must have blood.”

Clarke leaned forward. Her mind was made up: she was going to the battlefield, and she was going to stop this. “I am a Griffin, and I will _not_ lead my country to war. Not while I’m still alive.”

 

 

 


	17. Knocking on Heaven's Door

It was just past sunrise when they departed from the palace. Amid the chaos of burning towers and bomb-wrecked fortifications, a battalion of royal guards slipped away along the side of the palace grounds. At the lead marched Chief General Marcus Kane, his features as hard and steely as the armor he wore. Underneath the surface, his mind was swirling, overflowing with problems that he felt responsible for solving. All around him, his tired guards were still fighting off the attacks from the rebels, and it was a known fact that some rebels had managed to slip inside the massive palace and hide. Finding them would be like searching for a rat in the dark. On one hand, Kane felt better about bringing the princess along with him; even though the battlefields were by no means safe, it seemed like a decent option compared to leave the royal heir as a sitting duck and target for the rebels. Meanwhile, Doctor Jackson insisted that Abby wouldn’t be strong enough to travel, so she would remain at the palace – in a heavily-protected hideaway much like the War Room.

Kane glanced to his right, where the young princess was walking at his side. Gone was the blushing bride from before. She had hardened into something fierce. The fire burning in her eyes felt right at home with her armored appearance: Protective layers of thick clothing, dark leather gloves and boots, and a polished brass-accented chestplate that made her look like some terrifying archangel.

Up ahead, a pair of stablehands waited with two horses. Clarke swallowed, her jaw clenched, then hopped onto a sable horse. Kane took the tall gray mare beside her.

“Ready to ride out, Your Highness?” Kane asked.

Clarke nodded, her gaze drifting back upwards towards the looming silhouette of the palace. Overheard, the sky was a swirl of fiery colors, accented with bright red, reminding her of the bloodshed she was fighting to prevent.

* * *

 

Fingers racing, Bellamy laced up his best boots and the ties of his chestplate. He head positively throbbed when he tried to move too much, but he just bit his lip and kept going. He’d never been one for bed rest, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be caught lazing around with Kane’s best cadets disembarking for the old battlefields. _With_ _Clarke_.

Octavia had fallen asleep beside Bellamy’s bed, spending the night with her head slumped down and face crushed onto her leaning arm. Feeling the mattress shift, she woke up. “Bellamy?” she asked, eyebrows scrunching. “What are you doing?”

“I just heard,” he grumbled, fixing his belt. “Kane and the princess are riding out for the battlefields, to try and stop the Trikru invasion.”

Octavia wasn’t amused. “And, what, you think you’re going with them?”

“I’m a cadet. That’s where I’m supposed to be.”

She grabbed his shoulder. “Are you out of your goddamn _mind_?” she hissed. “Bellamy, you were bashed in the head with a metal brush. You have a _bruise_ on your _brain_. There’s no way in hell they’re going to let you ride out with them, let alone come anywhere close to the princess. By now I’m sure she’s told half the palace about what she caught you trying to do. I’m shocked we both haven’t been arrested, to be entirely honest.”

Bellamy hadn’t expected Octavia would see it that way. But, then again, she didn’t know anything about Clarke. She didn’t know about how Bellamy had formed a bond with her, a connection forged on their way to the palace. She didn’t know that Clarke trusted Bellamy. Even if she could hear any whispers of that bedroom conversation through the mirror, she wouldn’t understand the layers in Clarke’s words or why they meant so much to Bellamy.

Before Cage’s plot ruined everything.

Bellamy forced himself to stand, fists clenching as the blood rushed from his aching head. But he was strong, and he fought through it. He pushed past Octavia’s grasp, making for the infirmary exit and leaving her to trail behind him.

“Kane is never going to let you ride!” Octavia called out, hurrying to keep up with his wide strides.

“I’ll try anyways.”

“Think of what you did, Bellamy. It was attempted _murder_.”

Bellamy stopped, turning to face his sister. “You told me Clarke took off after Cage, after she hit me, right?”

Octavia nodded, breathing hard.

“Then she must’ve known Cage was involved. Even if she didn’t understand the whole situation with you, she has to know that I wouldn’t hurt her without being forced into it.”

She blinked rapidly, trying to understand him. “So you believe that you’re in the clear because the princess _might_ put two and two together and know it wasn’t your fault?”

“Clarke is smart.” Bellamy resumed his fast pace.

Octavia grit her teeth, frustrated. “So what’s your big plan? Ride out with the princess and stop a war? Bellamy, you’re hurt. And you’re just one man.”

“Trust me, I owe it to Clarke to try and help.” The idea of Clarke on that battlefield without him, where he couldn’t protect her, turned his stomach. He reached a staircase and started descending quickly. Octavia still followed.

“You don’t owe her anything,” Octavia insisted. “Is this because of what happened with Cage? If she really understands that you were put up to it, then you don’t owe her anything. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I was still there, Octavia. I still held a knife to her neck. She at least needs to hear my story. She should hear the truth.”

Octavia finally caught up to him as he turned the bend in the staircase. Her grip was tight on his forearm, and when his head swiveled to face her, her eyes were wide. It was the face of a revelation. “Oh my god,” she said, her voice quieter than before. “That’s why you want to go after her. _That’s_ why you think you owe her something.”

“What are you talking about?”

She shook her head, a disbelieving smirk pulling up the corners of her mouth. “ _You love her_.”

Those three words echoed through Bellamy’s brain like ripples on a pond. It was terrifying, hearing them spoken out loud. It made them real. And he knew he shouldn’t be afraid of them, of three little words that were nothing more than sounds and a breath. But he felt the entire gravity of his world hanging on those words and the feelings they hid. She was the one thing he’d never seen coming. The one thing he couldn’t grasp and control.

And he’d be damned if he couldn’t protect her.

Octavia put the pieces together. “That’s why you hesitated to do it. Even though you knew Cage had me. You hesitated.”

Bellamy bit his lip, unable to respond to that. It was the nagging truth that had been eating at him since Cage first presented his deal: Bellamy couldn’t choose between his sister and Clarke. Trying to do so felt like physically ripping himself in half.

Octavia prided herself in knowing Bellamy better than anyone else in the world. She could read his tiniest of movements, the slightest of glances and gestures. She knew everything there was about him because he was all she had in the world, and vice versa. But she’d never seen him like this. The way he was rushing into action, the spark lit in his eyes… Something new and special had taken hold of Bellamy Blake.

And when Octavia voiced her theory out loud, about Bellamy hesitating because he couldn’t let Clarke go, Octavia felt her heart ache with pain for her brother. He had given everything he had to raise his sister and keep her safe. He had given up his childhood and his freedom to support her, making choices that no one else would make. He had never even found the time or chance to love. And here was love – the royal princess, of all people – and Bellamy was forced to choose between a love he’d never seized and the sister he’d always had to look out for.

Seeing that Bellamy wasn’t going to say anything, Octavia did. “Go,” she whispered, as if saying it too loudly would change her mind. “Go get your little princess. Just, for the love of all that is good, don’t do anything stupid.”

For the first time in a long time, Bellamy’s lips curved up into a smile. It was hesitant and halfway and not a very good smile, but it was a smile nonetheless. His hand clasped Octavia’s, giving a squeeze.

“Be safe, big brother.”

“You too, O.”

* * *

 

The party traveling from the capital reached the old battlefields in good time, not wasting a moment for rest or distractions. Clarke’s face was a mask, hiding the exhaustion she felt from a sleepless, adrenaline-fueled night. Instead, she focused on the ominous landscape before her. The old battlefields stretched on for miles in either direction, a large grassy field that felt more dead than alive. The sky above was a washed-out gray, and a hazy silvery mist hung just above the ground. Through the fog, Clarke could make out the golden tongues of torches on the other side: the Trikru camp, where the enemy was waiting with unknown numbers and one goal in mind -- to fight until every Arkian soldier lay dead on the ground. Kane gave the order to set up camp, overseeing his men as they begin to pitch the large tents they brought from the palace. These joined the clusters of Arkian tents already standing: big blocky shadows against an ashen sky.

Clarke hopped off her horse and tethered the beast to a post driven deep into the ground. Her senses stood on extra alert despite her exhaustion, so she sensed his presence before she heard or saw him. He maintained his distance, hovering behind her as though her authoritative aura provided an invisible wall to keep people away. But, even before she saw his faint shadow cast on the grass at her feet, Clarke knew who waited for her.

“You came,” she said, eyes trained down and back still to him. She fiddled with the tether between her jumpy fingers.

It felt like eternities before he spoke. “I had to.”

“How are you feeling?” Clarke felt she was expected to ask regardless of whether or not she wanted to know, being that _she_ was the one who hit him with a heavy brush.

“I’ve had better days,” he replied. “Honestly, my head hurts like hell. You have a nasty swing.”

Clarke took a shaky breath. If she was going to march across the battlefield to the front lines and argue for peace, then she could handle talking to Bellamy face to face. Or at least that’s what she told herself. She faced him, managing to look anywhere but his eyes.

“Clarke,” Bellamy began. It was amazing how he could say her name, one little word, a thousand ways and it hit her differently each time. Right now, it felt like a fist squeezing her heart. “I need to explain myself.”

“There’s nothing to explain.” She cut him off. “I know about Cage and Octavia. I know why you did it, because  you didn’t have a choice.”

Bellamy shook his head, his dark curls swinging. “We always have a choice.”

“And you made yours.” Clarke finally dragged her gaze up to Bellamy’s. His eyes, thankfully not as hollow as they’d been in her bedchamber, were deep and complicated. “I don’t blame you for it. I would’ve chosen Octavia too.”

“Clarke.” There he went again, his words shooting straight for her heart. _How did we come to this?_ she asked herself, recalling the two strangers who met just outside of Tondc, one with an arrest warrant and another with a stolen coinpurse.

“She’s all I’ve ever really had,” Bellamy said, speaking of his sister. “Octavia has been my world for the longest time. Cage learned that, and he exploited it.”

 “It’s not your fault, Bellamy. Loving your sister isn’t some weakness; it’s what makes you _you_. I don’t blame you for what happened back there. I just… I just wish it hadn’t happened.”

A chill ran down Clarke’s spine. Perhaps it was the cold mist around her, or her sparking nerves, but it felt too much like the memory of the knife on her neck. She blinked it away.

“How are we supposed to live with that?” He asked the nagging question lurking in every corner of Clarke’s mind. “How are we supposed to look past that? _Can_ we?”

She sighed. Her heart was aching, _yearning_ to say yes. But her brain was tormenting her, conjuring up images and sensations from the assassination attempt to flicker across her mind. And, deep in her stomach, she couldn’t shake the awful feeling of betrayal she experienced in the moment when the knife was pressed to her skin.

“Right now, I need to focus on stopping this war. I need to figure out how to live another day, and how to bring these soldiers home.” She shook her head with an unfocused gaze. “I can’t afford to look past anything right now. Not yet.”

Bellamy lifted his head back, swallowing. His movements were small and almost imperceptible, and Clarke could read how that spoke to his insecurities. Spotting the frame of General Kane from the corner of her eye, she brushed past Bellamy and met the other man.

“Your Highness, we’ve received word from the Trikru side.” Kane’s eyes flickered back to Bellamy briefly before settling again on Clarke. “Their Commander has heard that you come to negotiate peace, and she is allowing us an audience with her. She expects us to meet at the boundary line, on foot, just three representatives to match her three.” He seemed a bit begrudging to share the last part: “She waits for your response alone.”

Clarke nodded slowly. “Then you and I will set out for the boundary line. Keep troops ready at the front lines, in case something goes wrong. We won’t go unarmed, but we should have backup.”

“And the third person?”

This time, Clarke silenced her brain and listened to her heart. And her gut instinct. “Cadet Blake,” she said, referring to him by his formal name.

Kane leaned in, lowering his voice. “Are you certain that is wise? Given the events that transpired last night…”

“I told you, I do not hold Blake responsible for what happened in my bedchamber. Besides, he was with me the last time I bargained with Lexa. I would like him at my side again.”

“As you wish, Your Highness.” Kane ducked away to grab Bellamy, leaving Clarke to secure her scabbard to her belt and begin marching out across the field. She was flanked by four guards, with Kane and Bellamy soon catching up to her.

Quite naturally, Clarke felt herself falling into step alongside Bellamy. He turned to speak to her. “What are you going to try?”

“Anything. Everything. What it takes to save my people.”

“And what happens when Lexa makes it clear she’s not looking for a bargain?”

“She wasn’t last time I spoke to her. Maybe we’ll get lucky again.”

“I wouldn’t---”

“Just cover my right side and let me do the talking, alright?” She tried to keep her irritation out of her words, but the pressure was getting to her. Bellamy got the message and stayed silent for the rest of the walk.

It was eerie, the way the frontline appeared out of the deep fog. One moment Clarke was walking towards a hazy expanse of gray, then the next she saw the silhouettes of a hundred soldiers emerge from the mist. They stood silently, if not a little restlessly, shifting with anxiety when they saw the trio of Arkian representatives walk stoically by. Clarke kept her focus on the other battalion of soldiers coming into view, the fearsome warriors from the Trikru side. She could just make out their looming stances, grotesque armor and massive weapons. Swallowing down the fear welling in her stomach, she focused instead on the familiar figure of Lexa, walking forward to meet her at the border. She was flanked by Indra and Tristan, neither of whom set Clarke’s fears at bay. The guards surrounding Clarke lingered behind, leaving just the three to march on.

As Clarke drew closer, she watched the way Lexa appraised her in her usual cool fashion, her green eyes sharp and lazy at the same time. All Clarke could think about was Lexa’s total indifference to Clarke’s pleas as she stole Monty from them. And yet, this ruthless woman would be the key to any chance at peace. Clarke didn’t like her odds at all.

They stopped, each trio standing a foot or so away from the border, which was marked by a small flag catching the morning breeze. At her side, Clarke sensed how Bellamy tensed up, likely not trusting the Trikru leaders to negotiate without violence. On the other side, Kane exuded a perfect façade of confidence.

“ _Heda_ ,” Clarke initiated, bowing her head slightly, as would be expected of her.

Lexa did the same. “We meet again, Clarke of Ark. I only wish it didn’t have to be in this scenario.”

“It doesn’t have to end this way, Lexa.” Clarke used her first name, hoping the intimacy would appeal to Lexa’s gentler nature. But the Commander showed no change in her face. “We can still prevent this war. Think of the lives we can save.”

“Lives have already been lost, Clarke.” No, there was no warmth in Lexa’s tone. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, one of my closest advisors, Anya, was killed by an Arkian assassin. That will be the tipping point to bring our nations to war.”

“I had nothing to do with the assassin,” Clarke insisted. “I don’t know who sent him or why. Neither my mother nor I ever approved of such a thing.”

“And neither did my guards,” Kane added without missing a beat.

Lexa regarded him with a sideways glance, uninterested. “But what of your Chancellor?”

It was a legitimate question, a question that Clarke was still asking herself. If Jaha was really insistent upon dragging Ark into war, even over some irrelevant territory, then Clarke wouldn’t put it past him to clandestinely authorize an assassination. But how could she express that to Lexa without confirming her worst suspicions? “Our Chancellor has been deposed, following a significant act of treason. I can’t undo anything he might have done while in office, but I will not be held to his actions now.”

“Nothing you say will bring my advisor back.” Lexa’s words stung. “It is only fitting that I avenge her death.”

“This war isn’t about revenge.”

“You’re right. It’s about decades of hostility between two nations who simply cannot get along.”

“Because they don’t _try_!” Clarke pleaded. “How long has it been since peaceful delegates have been traded between nations? How long has it been since representatives have just sat down and _talked_ with each other, trying to sort through the trivial issues that aren’t worth going to war for? Ark is just as guilty of it as Trikru is. We haven’t tried hard enough to set aside our differences for the good of both nations. Isn’t it time we fixed that?”

“Can it be fixed, Clarke? Can we repair _decades_ of discord between two nations that were never meant to get along? This might be what you want, but is this what your _people_ want?”

“My people don’t want war.” Clarke was reminded of Bellamy’s stance on the war, how the common people would be forced to make sacrifices they wouldn’t stand behind. “Not over some petty feuds and a territory that would only make the wealthy wealthier. My people want security, and the safety that peace brings. Isn’t that what your people want too?”

Lexa raised her head, confident and composed. “My people wait on the battlefield eager for a fight. _My people_ don’t hesitate to make the sacrifices that a weak man would hide from. My people are warriors!”

“And even warriors break!” Clarke returned Lexa’s comments with equal passion. “Even warriors grow weak. I _saw_ your people, Lexa. In Polis. Yes, there were warriors. But there were also homeless, and injured, and dying. There were starving children and soldiers so beaten by war that they were waiting for death with open arms. Don’t you want better for your people?”

Clarke felt a fire burning in her chest, and the flames rose to light up her eyes. She spoke beyond Lexa now, addressing the soldiers behind her in a powerful voice. “I cannot erase the mistakes of the past. I cannot dissolve the emotions of the present. But I _can_ safeguard a peace between our people, a peace that will give each nation time to heal as it should! Trikru was once a strong nation, a force to be reckoned with, as strong on the inside as its warriors are. If we stop this war, you can channel your attention on what _really_ matters: Your families, your neighbors, your friends, your fellow Trikru men and women and children. On repairing the nation that you fight so hard to defend.” She could feel the raw fervor swell in her chest, sparking like the crackling of open flame. She swung around, eyes raking left and right for any sign of her words making an impact. “So please, I implore you, _don’t_ look at Ark as your enemy, not when we are waiting and willing to be your ally. Choose life over death, peace over war, and write a new chapter in the history of our nations.”

All the while, Lexa stood in stony silence. Clarke now returned back to her, holding her intense gaze with all the strength she could muster. “Lexa, don’t do this. Don’t lead your people to death. Because no matter how this war goes, _there will be bloodshed. There will be death_. Don’t be remembered for that. Be the Commander who goes down in the stories as the leader who gave her country a new chance, who traded blood and death for an opportunity at new life.”

All around her, the battlefield sat in total silence, the only sound was the wind rustling through the trees and frozen soldiers. Everyone waited on baited breath, watching to see what their leaders would do. It was the kind of electric moment that would forever go down in history, and the story was yet to be finished.  Clarke kept her eyes locked on Lexa, not looking away for fear that the break would somehow sway her rival. Instead, she accepted the reality of her situation. She had just put her entire self out on the line. She was betting the future of her nation on a passionate plea, to a woman that wasn’t entirely heartless but carried a heart of stone. Lexa was a marble statue herself, not moving the slightest. Only her hair, the few wisps not tucked into her elaborate weave of braids, stirred in the breeze. She stood as the dark parallel to Clarke; her black leather armor in contrast to Clarke’s bronze, an archangel standing toe-to-toe with some creature of darkness. It was night confronting the day. And their world waiting, watching, holding its breath in anticipation for a decision that would change everything.

But Lexa didn’t get to make that decision. For deep behind her, among her rows and columns of warriors, a guttural cry rose up. It was taken up by others, spreading like some awful poison that brought ice into Clarke’s stomach. The warriors in their front bared their weapons and crossed the borderline, joining in the war cry. Arrows soared overhead, and all around the clash of sword on sword shattered the silent still of the fields.

“Clarke!” She heard her name shouted, whipping around in time to see Bellamy tackle her to the ground and block her from some attacker she hadn’t seen coming. Rising to her knees, her eyes searched for Bellamy’s gaze in wordless thanks, but his face was tilted away and he wouldn’t meet hers. Clarke scrambled to her feet, drawing her sword to block a swing just as a loud horn blast rang out.

She froze, as did the soldiers around her. The sound came from Indra, blowing hard into a glossy ivory horn. When she pulled it from her lips, the fighting had ceased. She barked something in Trigedaslang, and -- miraculously -- the Trikru soldiers crossed back over to their side. There were bodies from both nations lying on the grass alongside the wounded, but the chaos had broken. Clarke was speechless.

“You hold much hope in your words,” Lexa finally said, her voice loud enough to carry out to the masses even though she addressed Clarke alone. “One day, it will either save your life or be your downfall. But today, I will not be the judge of that.” She took a step back, shoulders high and proud. “Your words ring true. There was an old Trikru, a nation of unparalleled glory and prosperity. And over time, war and poverty wore that nation down into a broken shell of itself. We are given a choice in life: whether we want to grow, or die. And my nation is presented with that same choice. We can run ourselves into the ground with battle after battle, in hopes that we secure some distant glory before we die a painful death, either on the battlefield or from broken-down bodies in the aftermath. Or we can rise beyond the patterns of the past, to fight an entirely new battle: A battle with ourselves, with the ghosts of ourselves who thirst for blood and march ourselves towards death.”

Something flickered behind her green eyes, and whether it was understanding or agreement or a hint of respect, Clarke would never truly know. “I am the Commander. The _heda_. And today, I choose peace. I choose life. I choose hope, hope that we can rebuild Trikru and start anew.”

Lexa’s proclamation hung over the battlefield like the thick gray mist. Clarke could hardly breathe, let alone process her words. Somehow, her plan had worked. Her argument succeeded. Lexa had chosen peace. And now, Clarke waited to see if Trikru would rise up to meet her on this.

It started from deep within their ranks, farther back than the war cries. A single fist rose into the air, tall and unafraid. Then another. It was a ripple effect, like a slow wave blossoming over a pond’s surface. Gradually, the Trikru warriors released their weapons and raised their fists, expressing clear solidarity behind their Commander’s words. From behind Clarke, fists emerged among the Ark soldiers too, a mirrored gesture of choosing peace over war. Indra and Tristan were slow to raise their hands, but eventually they did, and they were the tipping point. Both sides stood with fists high, silent and strong in their actions, all surrounding two young women who dragged their nations from the hanging precipice of war.

Lexa’s eyes found Clarke’s again, holding tight as she gave a slow nod. Clarke returned the gesture, understanding the message: They were finished here. Yes, there would need to be a formal, written agreement of peace, but the immediate threat had been alleviated. Clarke waited to take her cue from Lexa, and it wasn’t long before the Commander turned on her heel and walked back up through her warriors, Tristan and Indra following. On the Trikru side of the border, the soldiers began to break from their formation and trail behind their leaders, drawing deeper into their half of the battlefields.

Clarke turned to Kane, surprised to see a smile on his face and in his tired eyes. “Well done, Your Highness.”

“Thank you, General.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, giving her an approving squeeze. “I had my reservations at first, I’ll admit, but you pulled off a truly remarkable feat here. Your father would be proud.”

Clarke’s breath hitched, not expecting that sort of praise. Of course, in all of Clarke’s memories of her father, she could never recall seeing him as anything _but_ peaceful. He never would’ve wanted this war, and she could imagine him looking down on her today with his kind smile, knowing that his daughter had made good happen.

As the Arkian forces began to withdraw from the border, Clarke followed suit. Kane walked far ahead, reaching one of his subordinate officers. It was amazing how different Clarke felt, knowing that she’d actually done it. Her steps weren’t as heavy; her shoulders didn’t sag so low. Then she remembered who had waited by her side through the whole thing, patient and quiet, and that same hope she’d carried in her speech lit up in her heart. A grin crept over her face, and she called out over her shoulder, “Bellamy!”

Clarke expected him to be right behind her, her ever-present shadow. But he wasn’t. And as she turned around, she wasn’t expecting him to be several paces behind, arms crossed over his torso and gaze cast downwards on himself.

“Bellamy?” She asked his name this time, the word falling naturally into a question. Taking a few steps towards him, she watched as he slowly unfolded his arms, lifting his head to finally look her in the eyes. His were wide and bottomless.

Then Clarke’s gaze drifted downwards to the bright red glistening on his hands, and how his hands were pressed tight against his side. He tried to take a step forward, winced, and his one knee gave out as he stumbled to the grass.

“ _Bellamy_!” Clarke flew to his side, eyes wild and heart pounding in her ears. He was struggling to sit up, but there was pain etched all across his face. Along his left flank, in the bottom corner of his polished chestplate, was a smear of red. Clarke untied the armor with flying fingers, removing it to reveal a sight that sent her stomach plummeting: a broken arrow shaft protruded through his shirt right next to where his chestplate had sat, the arrowhead somewhere deep within him. He’d taken a shot in a chink in his armor.

Clarke untucked his shirt and tugged up the hem, getting a better look at the nasty wound. Blood was spilling out from between the shaft and skin; the arrow must’ve hit a vein.

Her arms trembled, and every second that went by felt like far too long. She forced herself to take a shaking breath, before calling out for help. “Help, someone! Bring a medic! Hurry!” She made quick work of ripping his shirt’s hem, procuring a long strip of fabric. Trying to find the best way to stop the bleeding without further embedding the arrowhead, she wrapped the makeshift gauze around the exposed shaft and pressed with widened fingers. Bellamy grimaced.

“You’re going to be okay,” Clarke whimpered, alarmed by how pale his face had already grown. “You’re going to be okay.” In her mind, she was searching for an explanation. _How had he gotten hurt?_ She flashed back to the chaos after her speech, when there were swords and arrows and fighting everywhere. How Bellamy had tackled her to the ground but wouldn’t meet her eyes. How she hadn’t even glanced his way since then.

His cold fingers clasped over hers as she kept pressing onto his wound. She looked up, stirred into speaking by his gentle touch. “You did it for me, didn’t you?” Her voice cracked. “You took the arrow for me.”

“I’d do anything to protect you.” He forced out, halfway to a smirk on his ashy face. “It just makes sense.”

Clarke’s heart swelled, overcome with emotion for this man lying on the ground before her. She poured out her heart into her gaze, unable to leave the swirling depths of his deep brown eyes. She felt ready to drown in them. “Bellamy, you can’t do this to me. You can’t give yourself up like this. I--- _I need you_. I can’t do this without you.”

“Hey.” His lips tightened into a thin smile as he tried to push himself up onto his elbows. “Clarke, you should know…. I couldn’t do it.”

She hung onto his every word, his every breath, feeling the life drain from him beneath her fingers. “What?”

“When Cage had Octavia… I knew he was going to kill her. I knew what I had to do to save her. But… I _couldn’t_.” Something in his words told her he was speaking straight from the heart. “I couldn’t use that knife even if my own life was depending on it. I would have traded anything to keep you alive.”

A lone tear fell from Clarke’s watery eyes, sliding down the bridge of her nose. “Bell…”

His fingers shifted, now pulling her hand up from the fabric and holding it tightly. “Promise me, whatever happens, you’ll keep going.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You have to. Ark needs you.”

“ _I_ need you.”

Bellamy reached up, wiping another stray tear from just under Clarke’s eye. His thumb left behind a bloody streak, but Clarke didn’t care. She took a shuddering deep breath. “You’re going to get through this, Bell. We’ll get through this.”

“Together.” It felt like more than a word: it was a promise, a vow. Something sacred that couldn’t be touched. Clarke nodded, tears leaking freely from the corners of her eyes. A pair of medics rushed up alongside her, working to carefully slide Bellamy onto a stretcher. As they carried Bellamy towards one of the distant tents, Clarke’s feet remained rooted to the spot. She could feel his warm blood on her hands, the hold of his gaze watching her until he was too far away. The air felt a thousand times colder, and the suffocating weight from before came crashing back down on Clarke.

“I can’t lose you.” The whisper slipped past her lips, sounding desperate and defeated. She meant every inch of it. After coming so far, facing so many obstacles, she couldn’t lose him to a single arrow that had been meant for her.

And with that, the archangel of Ark sank to her knees, arms hugged tight to her chest as the world caved in around her.


	18. Broken

 

Jasper pushed away from the window, peeling his gaze off of the scene that was unfolding outside. From his vantage point, he could see a thick column of smoke rising from a distant fortification tower, still hanging heavy in the air. Jasper tried to overhear as much as he could, and he was able to learn that the rebel attacks had ceased this evening. Most of the insurgents ran for the winding streets of Station City, and every hour would bring palace guards returning with more arrested rebels. But, from the feeling of worry hanging over the palace, they weren’t catching enough.

For the hundredth time since the interrupted wedding, Jasper’s thoughts returned to Clarke. He hadn’t seen her since the queen whisked her away, after the guards brought bad news crashing down on the ceremony. He’d tried to squeeze information from any guard or servant who might know anything, but he’d been largely unsuccessful. The most Jasper had gotten came from one flustered, harried guard on his way towards the outer walls.

“I saw Her Highness in the hallway. She looked like hell.” He tossed the words over his shoulder as he hurried to his post. The description left a chill trickling down Jasper’s spine.

And then he’d heard that, early in the morning, the royal princess departed from the palace with the chief general and a battalion of palace troops. He had no idea where they were going or why they left, but if it was important enough to drag the two leaders away from their besieged palace, it couldn’t be good.

Jasper kicked the leg of the table beside him, once again feeling useless. He hated not having Clarke around, being cooped up in this palace without a friend. He hated feeling like there was nothing he could do, in the wake of the siege outside. He hated not having Monty by his side.

He hated how his toe stung and throbbed when he kicked the table too hard.

Restless, Jasper sank into one of the large plush chairs filling the shadow space of the library. This reading room was one of many in the palace, and he’d taken a liking to it since he’d never seen another person in there. The drapes were pulled tight over the windows, keeping most light out of the room. There was something calming about the darkness.

But not for long. Soon, the tiny hairs on the back of Jasper’s neck stood up, sending shivers across his skin. For the first time, the dark felt suffocating. He could’ve sworn he’d seen eyes in the shadows, peering out at him from where he could not see.

Jasper’s fingers curled, his nails digging into the upholstered armrests. His breathing sounded too loud to his ears.

Something wasn’t right.

 

* * *

 

 

At first, Octavia thought it was just fear gnawing at her stomach. She’d seen Bellamy, her bruised and battered brother, race off to join Kane’s battalion, and she’d let him go. Simply stood by and watched him leave. Every rational fiber in her body told her that wasn’t a great idea. And yet, the new light in his weary eyes convinced her otherwise. So she thought it was just nerves upsetting her churning stomach.

Until she realized she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything.

With her stomach making audible groaning sounds, Octavia began her quest for something to eat. She assumed that the palace kitchens were on one of the lower levels, where the servant quarters were. The corridors were oddly empty as she passed through, void of the meandering guests or usual guards standing watch. Even if she did see another person, they didn’t seem to notice her. Octavia certainly _looked_ out of place, in her filthy, stained underdweller garb. But no one seemed to care, not with the chaos of outside.

She reached the end of one hallway, about to descend down a flight of stairs, when she felt eyes on her. It was a natural, instinctive reaction to an odd feeling. Octavia spun around, eyes combing over a line of columns behind her. There, between the fourth and fifth column, she caught the slightest trace of a silhouette standing in the shadows. The figure didn’t seem threatening, but they were watching Octavia nonetheless. Not looking for a fight, Octavia turned and ran quickly down the stairs, ears alert for the sounds of someone following her. She didn’t hear any other footsteps, but she didn’t stop until she’d reached the level with the kitchens.

Down here, there were more signs of life. Servants bustled up and down the hall, carrying on with their tasks as if they could ignore the tension bottling up in the air. The smells were enough to make Octavia’s stomach roar.

She slid into a long storage room with shelves lining the sides. At the far end, another servant stood taking inventory. Spotting an unoccupied tray laden with wedding treats, Octavia slipped along the side and scooped up handfuls. She sunk her teeth into tiny meat pies with buttery crust and fruit tarts topped with cream. She made moans of satisfaction; never before in her life had she eaten something so delicious and decadent. Completely forgetting about the other servant in the room, his head snapped up.

“You’re not supposed to be down here,” he said slowly.

Octavia’s eyes went wide; she had no response to that. Her hand subconsciously reached to her belt, fingers probing for a sword she didn’t have with her. They curled into a fist.

“You’re one of them rebels!” The man looked wild, taking three quick steps forward. He was about Octavia’s height, and when he reached to grab her wrists she knew she could take him. She hooked her right leg around, knocking out his knees and landing an elbow to his gut. The man slipped. He swung a wide, drunken-like punch at Octavia, which she deftly dodged and instead gave him a blow to the head with the back of her hand. He went down hard, still breathing but knocked out cold.

Octavia didn’t get two panting breaths in before hands grabbed her shoulders and pulled her backwards. She flailed, but she wasn’t being dragged out the door as she’d thought. She slipped along the wall, behind the tall shelves into the dim shadows. When she finally wrenched herself around, she saw a face she’d never expected to see.

“Maya?”

The petite brunette nodded, eyes watery. She flung her arms around Octavia’s shoulders, holding her in a squeezing embrace. Octavia smoothed Maya’s hair and listened to her friend whimper in her ear.

“I was so worried about you! I thought something awful had happened… when you went above ground and didn’t come back, I thought Cage had gotten to you or the palace guards or…”

“It’s okay,” Octavia soothed awkwardly, not expecting such an emotional reunion. She pushed away gently, smiling into Maya’s face. “I’m fine. A little beat-up, very hungry, but fine.”

Then Octavia spotted the man standing in the shadows, arms at his sides and breathing silent. Lincoln stepped forward, his dark eyes sparkling with relief and tears. He gave a sheepish smile, drinking in the sight of the girl before him.

All Octavia could think about was her time at the bottom of Cage’s pit, when she teetered on the brink of insanity. How it was Lincoln’s voice, Lincoln’s strength, that kept her grounded and gave her motivation to keep fighting. How he’d kept her alive and sane. She ran forward, jumping into his embrace and flinging her arms around him. He was strong and steady holding tight to her, and when her lips crashed against his he kissed her back with equal passion. It was fierce and intense, and Octavia could feel her body tremble with his and tears dampen her cheeks. But Lincoln’s lips and arms were home, and when they pulled away he cradled her face and looked at her like she was all that was ever good in the world.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” He whispered, his voice husky.

Octavia let his wide gaze swallow her whole, feeling like she was falling into him. How could she express what had happened in that pit; how could she relay the gratitude she felt towards Lincoln for keeping her alive? Her heart swelled, but she didn’t have the words. She settled for another hungry kiss.

After a few seconds of melting bliss, Lincoln gently pushed away. Octavia spotted Maya from the corner of her eyes, standing silently and awkwardly with her hands clasped behind her back. Maya looked up, blushing, having been staring anywhere but the embracing couple before her.

“Sorry,” Octavia mumbled to Maya, who only smirked back in response.

“What happened to you?” Lincoln asked, noticing the shadows under Octavia’s eyes and the scratches and bruises littering her skin.

“Cage,” she hissed. “He caught up with me.”

Lincoln’s nostrils flared. Octavia had told him about what Cage had tried to do during her first meeting with the snake. “Did he---”

“No, thankfully. But… well, it’s complicated.” She thought about her capture, the blackmail and Bellamy, the assassination attempt and Clarke’s stopping Bellamy. _Complicated_ didn’t even begin to scratch the surface. Remembering her current time and place, she decided to save the story for later. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, we were supposed to be part of the invasion team,” Maya begin, wringing her hands together.

Lincoln tossed her a sideways glance, raising an eyebrow. “Actually, someone wasn’t supposed to be here _at all_.” Maya bit her lip. “Maya wanted to come looking for you, and I wouldn’t let her go alone. Not with the palace in a full-blown war with the rebels.”

“So it’s working, then? Miller’s invasion. I heard about the destruction done at the outer walls, but I’m assuming you were part of the tunnel battalion, right?”

Lincoln nodded. “I’m supposed to be clearing the palace of the guards, but most of them are already stationed at the walls. It’s oddly empty, from what I’ve seen.”

“That’s because this isn’t the only war Ark is fighting right now.” Octavia’s heart suddenly ached for her older brother, and it only reminded her of the precariousness of the present. “We should get out of here, before someone else finds us.”

“The tunnels have been clear so far.” Maya jerked her head backwards into the shadows, and Octavia followed her friends deeper into the storeroom. A large wooden panel had been pushed aside from the wall. “Where to now?”

“Miller wanted a team of us with him at the throne room.” Lincoln explained. “Not only would it send a very-visible message to the rest of the capital, but if there’s any good place to make negotiations with the palace, that would be it.” He grabbed a torch from off the tunnel’s wall and led the way through the dark pathway, listening as Maya secured the hidden door behind them.

“Who does he want to negotiate with?” Octavia asked.

“Certainly not the Chancellor. Either the Queen, or General Kane. They seem more reasonable than Jaha.”

“Kane’s away,” Octavia said, watching Lincoln turn around with a confused look on his face. She went on, “There was some incident between Ark and Trikru. They’re at war. Kane went with the princess and a team of guards to the frontlines, to try and stop it. I don’t think it’s even possible.”

“So Trikru really wants war? Are they so blind to their own fragility that they can’t see reason?”

“Why would the princess go? Wasn’t she getting married?”

Octavia answered Maya, “Not quite. She’s…. she’s a bit of a handful.” As they moved deeper into the tunnels, Octavia began to tell her story, starting with her capture by Cage all the way through Bellamy and Clarke and the bedroom episode.

 

* * *

 

 

Raven wasn’t used to failure.

Her entire life, she’d been set up to fail. She never knew her father, and her mother wasn’t around enough to even be called a mother. Even with Finn’s help, Raven was fighting against every odd. And she fought with everything she had. She’d fought to become independent, to become a blacksmith and an excellent one at that. She’d fought for a second chance at Station City, at the Underworld. She’d fought to overthrow the Chancellor that would’ve squashed her like an insignificant insect if they’d ever crossed paths.

Now, she fought to stand. Every time she tried to put any weight on her left leg, it buckled beneath her. Sitting deep within some tunnel somewhere in the palace – where Wick had been able to carry her – she used the pointed tip of her center punch tool to poke at her leg. Starting at the ankle, she traveled upwards, waiting to feel any sensation of the tool. She didn’t until halfway up her upper thigh. She swore.

“Raven,” Wick’s voice tried to soothe.

“I --- I should to feel something,” she said, her voice edging on hysteria. Focusing all of her concentration at her left leg, she tried to move it. But she couldn’t feel a thing beneath her thigh. Her veins bulged as from the effort it took to move one little toe. It didn’t move. “I _have_ to!”

“Raven,” he reached for her hand, fighting for her attention. “It’ll be okay. We’ll think of something, I promise you.”

“I’m _broken_ , Wick!” Her voice cracked. “I’m broken.”

“And we’ll fix you. As soon as we get back to the Underworld. I’ll pull something together back in the shop, a brace or crutch or something.”

 _Brace. Crutch_. The words sounded foreign to Raven’s ears. Never before had she given them much thought, never thinking she’d ever need them. Surely not _Raven_. But, from somewhere deep within her, she was reminded of how far she’d come. Of how much she’d fought for. And it kindled something in her. Raven gave a wide-eyed nod.

From far off in the tunnel behind them, there was an odd noise. Both Raven and Wick snapped their heads around when they heard it.

“What was that?”

“Was that an explosion?” Raven couldn’t imagine the rebels having any bombs left.

Suddenly the air in the stony tunnel became very, very warm. Raven could smell the awful odor of sulfur just before she saw the reddish glow on the walls. Wick understood before she did.

“Come on!” He cried, sliding an arm around her back and pulling her upright. She tried to use her right leg and Wick’s support to move forward, catching a glimpse of brilliant orange light rushing forward. Wick moved as quickly as he could, but he was struggling under their combined weight. Heat prickled off the back of Raven’s neck, sending beads of sweat down her temples. Wick gave up, sweeping Raven into an awkward carry and stumbling forward through the red-lit darkness.

“Left!” Raven cried out, spotting a crack in the wall, a door that hadn’t been shut all the way. Wick skidded to a halt, unceremoniously tossing Raven inside before sliding in behind her. He shut the heavy stone panel just before the wave of fire reached them.

Raven sank to the floor, the smell of sulfur and smoke still thick in the dank tunnel air. She heaved, trying to shake off the feeling of fire at her back and utter helplessness at her immobility. As she panted, she took in the sights of the room around them. It was small with thick stone walls, and a thin bluish light trickled out through a grate near the ceiling. It looked like some type of vent, to keep air flowing throughout the palace. Other than the door Wick had shut behind him, Raven didn’t see any exits.

“The fire must be gone by now.” Wick wiped his damp forehead with the back of his hand, eyes wild. His fingers combed the stone for the crack in the door and gave a pull. Nothing happened. He pulled again, waiting for the sliding panel to budge.

“I can’t move this,” he growled out, teeth gritted.

Dragging herself to his side, Raven tugged with all the weight she could muster. But the heavy stone seemed stuck, impossible to move even the slightest inch.

Wick slammed his fist against the stone, frustrated. “There’s got to be another way out of here.” Frantic hands probed the walls for another hidden door, but their luck had run out. Raven squeezed her eyes shut, trying to think of a solution.

“The vent,” she remembered, pointing up at it. “It’s got to lead somewhere.”

Wick stood high on the tips of his toes, craning to get a better look. Reaching, he pulled the metal grate off of the small vent and peered in. “There’s no way I can fit in there.”

“I could.”

He spun. “No, Raven. We don’t even know where it goes.”

“We need to get out of here.”

“What if it drops you off in a furnace, or right into a group of guards? What if—”

“I can’t walk, Wick. But I can crawl.” Raven was insistent, tired of feeling useless and vulnerable. “I’ll get to the other side and get help. _I can do this_.”

There was visible confliction written across Wick’s dirty, soot-smudged face. He seemed to deflate as he nodded, “Okay.” When he bent down to pull Raven to her feet, he swept her into a tight embrace. She smirked into his shoulder, trying to fight the moisture in her eyes. This wasn’t a goodbye. Not yet.

Wick hoisted her up, propping her onto his shoulders as Raven’s fingers scrambled for the ledge. It would be one hell of a tight squeeze, but there was no turning back now. She slid into the metallic vent, which left just enough room for her shoulders and hips and little else.

“Be careful, Reyes!” Wick called from behind her once she’d fully slipped into the vent.

“I will,” she said, more to herself than to Wick.

 

* * *

 

 

The safe room felt like a glorified prison cell. There were no windows and only one door, which was guarded by four men on the other side. Inside, Queen Abigail sat on the cot with perfectly regal posture and a shattered confidence. There was a small desk and chair, a nightstand, a washbasin and shelves. Three guards and a maid accompanied the queen.

Abby’s mind was reeling. In less than twenty-four hours, her entire world had been turned upside down and spinning. Her daughter’s wedding halted, the Chancellor a traitor, her country at war. Clarke, riding off with General Kane on a death wish to stop the inevitable. Abby stared down at her hands, watching them tremble like a leaf in a breeze. She’d almost lost her daughter twice – once in the bombing, then last night with the assassination attempt. She could lose her again.

Her blood felt icy and sluggish through her veins, but – oddly enough – Abby didn’t feel as weak as she normally would. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d rested; it had been many hours since she’d left her chambers. And while she was exhausted, she felt alive. She didn’t feel frail or ill, not like usual. It was bizarre.

Above her, Abby heard an odd banging sound. Her eyes raked over the ceiling, landing on a shaky grate from high up on the wall. She rose from the bed, eyes never leaving the grate.

“Stand back, your Majesty,” a guard advised, drawing his sword and sliding in front of her defensively.

Three more _bangs_ and the grate popped out, falling to the ground with a clatter. Abby’s gaze grew wide as a pair of arms appeared, attached to a small body which tumbled down. The figure caught the edge of the cot and landed in a heap on the mattress. The guards lunged for her as the intruder raised her head.

In that moment, Abby didn’t see a stranger. She saw Clarke, reflected in the deer-like look of fear on the girl’s face. She saw open wounds and soot and battle scars, and underneath that hid glimmers of tenacity and strength. “Wait!” Abby cried, unable to watch this girl, this _child_ , be treated like an enemy.

“But, your Majesty…” began one of the guards.

“She’s just a child,” Abby said, hoping desperately that she was right. She watched as the girl slid off the cot to stand, but one leg buckled under her weight and she cried out. “And she’s hurt.”

“She’s an intruder. Likely a rebel. And that makes her a threat.”

“So disarm her and leave her be.” Abby couldn’t bring herself to arrest this girl. She watched as the guards stripped her of a whole assortment of weapons, most of which hid in an odd toolbelt around her waist. Once cleared, Abby bent down in front of her. “Can you move your leg?”

Trying to show strength, the girl clenched her teeth with a tight jaw and shook no.

“What’s your name?”

“You’re the Queen, aren’t you?”

Abby gave a sad smile. “Yes. I’m Abby. Who are you?”

She raised her head, jaw proud as sweat dripped down her temples. “Raven Reyes.”

 

* * *

 

 

Lincoln pushed against the stone of the tunnel’s wall, feeling it give way. The door was hidden by a hanging tapestry, the thick woven wool blocking light from the corridor. Lincoln snaked his head around it, checking both ways for guards, then announced it clear.

Octavia didn’t recognize this part of the palace, which – unlike other areas of the castle – was completely untouched by the attacks. There wasn’t any rubble filling the floor or signs of destruction along the walls. Everything stood and hung exactly as it should have, leaving the corridor frozen in time. And it was beautiful. Elaborate tapestries adorned either wall, with big vases of flowers, a lush patterned carpet and a row of twinkling crystal chandeliers overhead. Octavia found herself in awe and sickened at the same time. How could people live in such finery all the days of their lives, when she and Bellamy had struggled for food to eat or somewhere to sleep? Did they not see the poverty beyond these palace walls? Did they even care?

From up ahead, they heard the _crash_ and _shatter_ of destruction, strange cacophonous sounds breaking the eerie quiet from a halfway-shut door to her left. Lincoln led the way cautiously, his sword drawn. Octavia followed, wishing she’d had a weapon of her own, and grateful when she felt Maya press the handle of a dagger into her palm.

Lincoln kicked open the massive wooden door, which led into a lavish suite – or, what remained of it. The destruction that had been so noticeably missing in the hallway was everywhere here. Tables were overturned, shelves emptied unceremoniously onto the floor, paintings stripped from the walls. Deeper in the chaos Octavia saw the broken remains of a mirror and vanity, the spilled contents of a wardrobe, and shredded bedsheets. The room, obviously once luxurious and elegant, was a pitiful mockery of that now.

She noticed two grimy figures at the center of it all, rebels with wide grins on their faces as they ransacked the room. Each seemed to stuff as many pieces of jewelry and expensive-looking objects onto their grease-smeared bodies.

Lincoln walked forward into their line of sight, a disapproving look on his face.

“We’ve found the _queen’s_ quarters!” One of the thieves grinned wildly.

“So leave it alone,” answered Lincoln.

“Why should we? We got here first, there’s no guards around. We deserve to keep our loot.”

“Remember why you’re here in the first place,” Lincoln warned. “To secure the palace, not raid it. We’re soldiers, not pillagers. And it’s hard to insist otherwise with the queen’s jewels around your neck.”

An embarrassed look came over the thief’s face, and he tore off the string of pearls from around his neck. They scattered across the littered floor, tiny pinkish spheres rolling in all directions. Octavia couldn’t help but think there was something beautiful and sad about the sight.

“What on earth?” Octavia spun at the sound of Maya’s mumble. The brunette was crouched over, nudging a pile of white downy feathers with the tip of her boot. Pillows from the queen’s bed were slashed and scattered, leaving feathers all over the room. What was odd about it?

“What is it?” Octavia asked.

Maya bent down. She scooped up a handful of down, getting a closer at it. As she rolled the feathers around in her fingers, Octavia noticed how there was more than just feathers: she saw tiny white seeds, rounded and irregular, no larger than the head of a pin.

Recognition flashed in Lincoln’s eyes, and he surged forward to knock the seeds from Maya’s hands. “Don’t touch them.” He warned, letting them fall to the floor before bending to examine them. “Where did these come from?”

“They were with the pillow down,” Maya explained, confusion written across her face. “Do you recognize them?”

He nodded. “Seeds from the northern lacelock plant. They’re rare, but they can be found in Trikru.” Lincoln recoiled. “Poisonous. Deadly if ingested. They’re still considered very harmful in their unshelled state, with the white exposed. Spend too much time with these seeds and you’ll start to feel it.”

“So why were they with the pillow down?”

Octavia’s eyes widened as an idea rose in her mind. “The queen…” she whispered, putting two-and-two together. “The queen’s mystery illness.” That caught Lincoln and Maya’s attention. “The illness that had all of the doctors stumped… What if the _seeds_ were behind it?”

Lincoln’s eyebrows furrowed, taking in the spilled contents of Queen Abigail’s pillows scattered across the room. “If she was sleeping on these pillows every night, that would certainly have some effects on her health. Perhaps you’re right.”

“There’s no way those seeds were an accident,” Maya absorbed the gravity of these statements. They had stumbled upon deception at its finest. “Some must’ve been deliberating stuffing her pillows with the poison, trying to kill the queen or at least keep her weak.”

Octavia took a step backwards, the pieces falling into place. With the queen ill and unable to work, one singular person benefitted above everyone else. One person ruled in her place.

“Jaha.”

 

* * *

 

 

Raven blinked wetness away from her eyes, biting her lip through the throbbing pain that shot up her leg. It was stretched out before her, with the mangled skin bare and exposed. Before, it had been a mess of blood and dirt caked over ripped muscle and bone crushed from the debris of the explosion. That was before Abigail, Her Majesty the Queen of Ark, got down onto the ground beside Raven and cleaned her wound.

Raven could tell that the queen’s guards were livid. They kept their weapons drawn and focused on her, even though they’d disarmed her as soon as she’d tumbled into the safe room. If the queen minded, it certainly didn’t show. She simply demanded the tools she needed to tend to Raven’s leg, and a servant obliged. The queen – _Abby_ – cleaned away the dirt and blood from the broken skin, examined the wound, and determined that it would need further medical aid. In the meantime, she bandaged it carefully with a long strip of perfect white cloth.

“Why are you helping me?” Raven finally asked.

Abby raised her head, sending a penetrating stare at Raven. If the girl had been lying about anything, that look would’ve torn right through it. “Because we are at war.”

“But I am a rebel.” Raven didn’t even try to hide it. “We attacked your palace, we invaded to reach your Chancellor and overthrow him.”

“The Chancellor is done with.”

This was news to Raven. “Dead?”

“No, but he will not be ruling any longer. Not while I’m alive.”

Raven sheepishly picked at a fingernail. “Guess we’d better keep you alive, then?”

“I suppose so. Does this mean you’re not going to try anything stupid on me, Raven Reyes?”

If she really wanted to kill the queen, Raven was confident enough, _cocky_ enough, to feel like she could find a way. But that had never been her intent. “No, Your Majesty, I won’t.”

Abby nodded, shifting her weight on the floor into a more comfortable sitting position. Here, at this angle, in the dim and unforgiving light of the safe room, Raven didn’t see a queen. She saw a worn and tired woman, a human like herself. “What is it you rebels seek?”

“A change in power, mostly. Representation for the working lower classes, giving us a chance to be treated like real people.” She remembered Miller’s rallying speeches. “We want a say and a voice, not to be treated like pawns. The Chancellor abused us, manipulating the system so we built up the nobility and fought their battles for them.”

“Oddly honorable,” Abby admitted. She seemed to sink. “There may be more battles to fight, I’m afraid.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ark is teetering on the brink of war with Trikru. My daughter, the princess, left for the battlefields to try and buy ourselves some time.” She let out a shaky, rattling sigh. “I don’t know if Clarke was successful, but I suppose I’ll learn soon enough.”

There it was, that name again. _Clarke_. Raven recalled images of a Clarke back in Tondc, a mysterious girl with flaxen hair and restless eyes, who lived in the shadows and could vanish without a trace. And when she smiled, it was like a flickering of a candle: bright and quick and warm. “The long lost princess?”

“Yes.” The corners of Abby’s lips tugged upwards at the memory of her daughter. “All these years she’s been in hiding. All these years.”

“I think… I think I knew your daughter.”

Abby’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I used to live in Tondc,” Raven explained. “I remember a girl named Clarke, a girl who lived a very secretive life.”

“She was hiding in Tondc.” Eyes growing wide, Abby insisted that Raven continued. “Tell me about her, please.”

Raven thought of Clarke, the enigma that upheaved her entire world. She thought of the icy ache in her stomach when she’d learned of Finn’s cheating, how he’d carried on two relationships simultaneously. A bitter part of her wanted to speak of that, of the shining girl who’d ruined Raven’s first and only love.

But she glanced sideways at the queen, waiting with eager eyes. This worn old woman, weary from a life of pressure and stress at the helm of a nation. Beaten down by illness and crippling loss, holding a small flame of hope within her. That flame was her daughter.

“She was loved,” Raven finally spoke. But she didn’t speak of Finn. “She had good friends, Clarke. They were practically her brothers. Jasper and Monty. They went everywhere together, attached at the hip. They were moonshine brewers, pickpockets, but they were happy. I’ve never seen a friendship like that.”

Raven pulled the tattered remains of her cloak around her shoulders. “I guess that’s what it’s all about in the end: finding people who make you happy. Perhaps she had it all figured out.”

In that moment, sitting on the cold floor, surrounded by guards and servants and the royal queen, Raven Reyes felt alone.

 

* * *

 

 

They heard about the arrival before they saw them. It was as though the castle had come back to life, with servants and staff creeping out from their hiding places to pick up their jobs and bring back the usual buzz. Hoping not to stand out, Octavia, Lincoln, and Maya swapped most of their battle armor for stolen clothing, choosing simple tunics and long cloaks. It was disorienting for Octavia, turning around to see a disguised Lincoln dressed in the garb of a traditional Arker, hiding his tattoos and warrior physique and endless pockets of supplies. But his warm gaze kept her grounded, and she found herself reaching for his hand as they reentered the now-bustling corridors.

That’s when they heard the first rippling whispers about the party of soldiers returning from the battlefields. The stories were too fantastic to be true: the princess riding up at the last moment, passionately advocating for peace and convincing the Trikru Commander to call off the attack. It was something out of a storybook, something Octavia couldn’t believe.

But, with a passing glance outside a window, Octavia spotted the snaking line of soldiers entering through the palace gates. Her heart lifted to her throat. “They’re back.”

“Who’s back?” Maya craned her neck to see past Octavia.

“The soldiers from the battlefields. Bellamy was with them.” Octavia quickened her pace, her fingers slipping out of Lincoln’s.

“Your brother?” he asked. “I didn’t know he was a soldier.”

“He’s a guard,” Octavia answered. “And the only reason he was at the front lines is he’s a fool in love.” Hell, the words felt awkward and clunky in the context of Bellamy. This was _Bellamy_ , he didn’t believe in that kind of love.

She led them swiftly down a staircase towards the main courtyard where she’d seen the soldiers gathering. Up ahead, a thick pile of debris littered the stairs, where there was a hole blasted clean through the palace wall. Desperate enough to reach Bellamy, Octavia abandoned the barricaded staircase and clambered through the crack in the wall, climbing over the stone to the rubble outside. She was slapped in the face with the sting of cold evening air and the stench of unwashed bodies. A skidding sound from behind her reminded her that Lincoln and Maya were still following, but Octavia was busy combing the crowd for her brother.

Instead, she spotted General Kane, looking like he’d aged at least four years since leaving this morning. He stood off to the side, surveying his soldiers and taking in the fact that each one in the courtyard was still alive. His arms were folded and chin raised, but his gaze eventually settled on the girl watching him. Octavia saw his features go slack with shock as he registered who she was, so she took that as her cue to approach him.

“Octavia Blake, the dead girl walking.” Kane teased grimly, no humor on his face. His stony eyes seemed shaken.

“I’m not dead yet,” she replied with defiance in her voice.

“Of course not. Your survival certainly is a surprise to me, but when I really think about it, it shouldn’t be surprising at all. Not for you.”

“Where’s my brother?” Octavia cut right to it. “I know he left to join you and your troops, has he returned?”

A shadow passed over Kane’s wrinkled face. “Yes…”

“Then where is he?”

“He was wounded on the battlefields.” The sympathy in Kane’s eyes spoke volumes, and Octavia knew it couldn’t be good. She felt a strong grasp on her shoulder, distantly understanding it was Lincoln’s but not really paying attention. Kane continued. “It was an arrow wound, but it was tipped with some sort of Trikru poison. It’s nothing our medics have seen before. The wound itself is manageable, but the poison is something else.”

“May I get a look at him?” Lincoln spoke up, his voice a soothing balm to the burn of Kane’s words.

Kane raised a brow. “You?”

“I was born and raised in Trikru,” Lincoln admitted, gambling his identity. “I’m a healer, among other things. I’m familiar with many types of Trikru plants and especially the poisonous ones.”

“You think you’d know how to save him?” Kane was visibly skeptical.

Again, a comforting squeeze on Octavia’s shoulder. This time, she registered it. “I have to try. For Octavia.”

Kane nodded, and Octavia caught a glimpse of the anguish in his own eyes. At every step of Bellamy’s cadet training, it had been Kane who’d pushed him and seen him through. He was the closest thing to a father that Bellamy ever really had, but Octavia had no idea of the effect her brother could have on Kane. “We have to hurry, there isn’t much time.” He motioned towards a door back inside the palace, and Lincoln followed with wide steps.

Octavia hurried to catch up, pausing for a moment when she felt a strange tingling sensation on the back of her neck. She spun around, noticing another person staring right at her. It was the princess, watching her over her shoulder. Her golden armor shimmered in the dying sunlight, but all Octavia could see was the brokenness and despair across Clarke’s face.

They stood like that on opposite sides of the courtyard, watching each other. Two girls who both loved the same boy in very different ways. Octavia did the only thing that felt right: she gave a quick nod then turned back inside to go find her big brother.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	19. We are Coming Home

The infirmary was a tall, high-ceiling chamber set in the corner of the palace. Long windows ran vertically along the stone walls, letting in what was left of the dying afternoon light. While almost every bed was filled, the aftermath of the attacks calling for added cots and extra medical staff, there was a strange silence to the room. Of course, Clarke didn’t notice any of this. Her ears were ringing, a thudding heartbeat pounding against her temples. She practically flew into the chamber, weaving among the cots and tables to reach a small crowd on the far side of the room.

She recognized General Kane hovering beside a bed, and the dark-haired girl that she assumed to be Octavia Blake. Her bright eyes were wild and roving. A tall, exotic man spoke quickly in a hushed voice, giving instructions to a nearby nurse. There was something strange about him, in the way that he carried himself or in his chiseled face. Clarke couldn’t place it. She might’ve noticed the tips of a tattoo on the back of his neck, had her gaze not been pulled to Bellamy’s ashen face.

He’d never seemed as small as he did in the infirmary bed, his skin practically matching the white sheets. His wound was clotted and no longer bleeding, but it shone with awful pus and the tinge of poison. It was a medical miracle that he was still breathing.

Clarke pushed her way to the foot of the bed, gripping the metal railing of the frame to steady herself. Her breathing was uneven and rushed, watching this stranger pull an odd pouch from some hidden pocket. He rifled through the leather carrier, extracting a tiny glass vial filled with cloudy liquid.

“Hold his arms, please.” The man’s voice was oddly calm as he uncapped the vial and pinched Bellamy’s lips open. Kane gripped one arm while Octavia grabbed the other.

Clarke watched with a frozen breath as he spilled the contents of the vial down Bellamy’s throat. Horror consumed her as her wounded guard convulsed, his muscles rippling as he struggled against the restraint at his wrists. His chest heaved and rolled until the stranger pushed him down, leaving Bellamy to thrash his head and cry out.

“What the hell did you do?” Clarke yelled, fear overtaking her. Gripping the bedframe, her knuckles seared white.

“It’s only temporary,” the man reassured them. “This will slow the effects of the poison until I can finish the antidote.”

But Bellamy kept seizing, both Octavia and Kane fighting to hold his flailing arms. He let out a particularly heartbreaking cry, tearing straight through Clarke’s chest.

“What did you _do_?” She kept repeating, tears spilling down her cheeks in rivers. They’d made it home… Bellamy was supposed to be safe now… They couldn’t have made it all the way home only to lose him now…

“ _What did you do?_ ” She was screaming at this stranger for torturing Bellamy; at Bellamy for taking that damn poisoned arrow for her; at herself, for not admitting how she felt sooner. It couldn’t be too late.

“Get her out of here,” the stranger said, steel in his words. Clarke barely felt the firm hands gripping her shoulders as someone pulled her from the room. Her eyes were clouded with tears as she fell into a familiar embrace, recognizing the long arms and lanky stature of Jasper, sobbing into his shoulder as she trembled with fear.

* * *

 

Queen Abigail swept down the long stone corridor, flanked by two guards on either side of her and one behind. She felt more like her old self than she had in weeks, like a bright flame roared within sparking her with life. Her gown was a lush, unapologetic red, one of the few pieces that hadn’t been destroyed when the rebels ransacked her room. She’d returned from the saferoom to see her chambers devastated, décor smashed and slashed and pieces of apparel littering the chaos. But she’d found something else in the mess, something that she’d had a royal expert examine. An expert on poisons.

They were high up in the southern tower, a deserted part of the palace where few were allowed to go. Because, while there were dungeons deep beneath the castle, the highest-security cell stood high above the ground. Abby passed another trio of guards, then four more at the top of the stairs. All bowed reverently at the queen who treaded in their presence, impressed by the life in her eyes and intimidated by the shining crown on her head.

There was one door at the end of the hallway, made from paneled iron and bolted several times over. “Unlock it,” she ordered one of the guards, and he pulled a heavy keyring from his pocket. Abby waited, lips drawn into a thin tight line, as the door was unlocked and heaved open. She entered the tower cell without being invited, aware of her two personal guards who followed her on the way in.

It certainly wasn’t cozy. It was larger than any other cell, but its height above the ground and the glassless barred windows kept it significantly colder. It was hard and stark and impersonal, exactly how it should be. Abby kept her head high and face controlled as she stared into the vacant eyes of ex-Chancellor Jaha.

“Really, Abby, is this necessary?”

“That is _Your Majesty_ to you.”

Jaha sighed, weary. “ _Your Majesty,_ is this all necessary? The tower, the extra guards. We both know I’m not the greatest threat to the palace right now, not while there are rebels inside the castle walls and Cage Wallace is still on the prowl.”

“Your pet Wallace has been dealt with,” Abby folded her hands at her waist. “And I can assure you that he won’t be prowling anymore. Besides, I don’t need him locked up in the tower, he doesn’t provide a threat to the state of Ark quite like you do.”

It was almost humorous, seeing Jaha in this state. He still wore his highly-embellished doublet trimmed in gold, but everything was dulled and tarnished by the dust of the tower. His ankles were cuffed in chains, just in case he tried to run. Jaha still tried to carry himself like a proud ruler, but that was little more than a hollow shell. Abby could see that in his empty eyes.

“A threat? I’m locked up here in chains.”

“Locking up any politician is complicated. Handling one who committed treason then stood as the de-facto ruler for _ten years_ is even trickier. Placing you in the dungeons or a random room would’ve been too risky, as I don’t know who among the palace staff still pledges their misguided allegiance to you. Keeping you here, under guards who I’ve selected myself, that keeps things in control.”

She paced slowly, relishing the sound her heeled shoes made on the stony floor. “As for the rebels, they’re being dealt with through negotiations, as a legitimate political party looking for representation.”

Jaha could hardly hold back. “They’re _criminals!_ They stormed the palace, broke in--”

“Because the previous political environment prevented them from being heard.”

“They bombed the palace! They’ve _killed_ palace staff, Abby, do not treat them like negotiators.”

“ _Your Majesty!_ ” Abby’s voice crept up in volume to match Jaha’s. “I am the _queen_ , Thelonious. I rule because that is my role and my privilege. So I will _not_ be putting these people down like rabid dogs only to march off to war with Trikru half a moment later. Forgive me for not following your example.”

“You’re driving this nation to hell, Abby.”

“You’ve already taken us to the brink of Hell. I’m trying to bail us out, bring us back.”

Jaha heaved, coughing. For a flickering moment, a part of Abby wanted to feel sympathy for this man, an old, weak man in chains. But then she remembered his attacks against her and her family, and that sympathy was squashed like an insect. “What of my son?” He asked, voice falling quiet. “Wells…”

“My daughter has advocated for his innocence, insisting that Wells didn’t know the extent of your treason.” Abby saw her words bring light to Jaha’s eyes. “An argument could be posed against that, but Clarissa has a heart, and she intends to use it for good. Your son will not face charges, but he will not be allowed to stay in Ark. That is all I can do.”

Jaha swallowed thickly. “And my charges? My punishment?”

Abby froze, her face hardening and jaw clenching. “Do you deny conscripting Cage Wallace to arrange and carry out an elaborate attempt on my daughter, the Heir of Ark, on her life?”

“We both know Cage has testified against me, and he will continue to. I have mountains of evidence against me.”

“Do you deny expediting your son’s marriage to Clarissa in order for him to have claims to the throne, through matrimony, so you could murder Clarissa and place Wells on the throne?”

“You can never prove my intentions. Cage will speak against me, but not Wells. _Never_.”

“Do you deny arranging for a rare, foreign poison to be stuffed into the pillows in my bedchamber, leading to the steady deterioration of my health that would keep you ruling in my place?”

“Please, don’t go on…”

“ _Do you deny your key role in having my husband, the King of Ark, assassinated?”_

Jaha’s face went slack. “How can you make that accusation, Abigail?”

“Once a few charges of treason are placed against you, you’d be surprised at how many people will step forward with credible information. With evidence and testimony.”

A thick silence hung through the chilly air of the tower. Abby was practically sparking with lightning, her eyes fiery and resolve strong. Meanwhile, Jaha seemed ready to blow away with the slightest wind.

“Abigail,” Jaha’s voice cracked, pleading. “I’ve always had Ark’s best intentions in mind. Ways to _save_ this country, by pushing it forward, moving it along the path to its greatest destiny. I never lost sight of that. Your husband… Jake stood in the way.”

“You were his _best friend_ ,” Abby’s words were like iron brands sealing Jaha’s fate. “You had him killed because of _destiny_? Some grandiose vision of what you thought Ark could be? He trusted you, and you stole his life. Robbed him of years to come, years at my side, _years watching his daughter grow up_.”

Abby went on, taking bold steps towards Jaha and standing right up in his face. “And when you had him killed, you tried to kill Clarissa too. End the Griffin line right then and there. You drove my daughter away from me, forcing her to hide for her life. You didn’t just steal her from Jake, you stole her from _me_!”

“So what will it be, Abby?” Jaha spoke in a whisper. “When am I to be executed? Will I at least receive a warning?”

Abby stepped back, shaking her head. “Clarissa is to be queen soon. You stole her father from her, stole her life, her title, her security. Then you send her country to war, forcing her to clean up your mess. I’ll let her decide what to do with you.”

* * *

 

Another day, another morning, but everything was the same. There was still a hazy mist over the rolling plains of the battlefield, still a soft breeze rustling the tall grass into waves. Everything was shrouded in gray, like the entire world was waiting.

Clarke emerged from her tent, feeling more like a fancy chess piece than a living, breathing person. Her assistants had dressed her exquisitely, choosing a very particular outfit for this historic event. She wore a sage-green chiffon gown, fanning out delicately behind her when she walked. Over the fine fabric rested her elaborate golden breastplate, the swirls and facets of her armor polished until they gleamed even in the clouded sunlight. A braided, twisting circlet crown crossed her forehead. It was a softer, more feminine take on the battle angel from before, the princess who’d rushed up to the frontlines to argue for peace. In just a handful of days, the legend of Princess Clarke had swelled in both nations, Ark speaking of a lost savior who fought off the tyranny of the Chancellor, and Trikru referring to her as a _heda_ of life, not death.

General Kane fell into stride on Clarke’s right side. She’d grown used to his presence, finding comfort in the quiet man’s strength and composure. “This should be easy and painless,” he said, keeping his voice low. “All you need to do is repeated the rehearsed pledge, sign the official peace documents, and keep it together. You’ll be fine.”

Clarke nodded, swallowing down the bitter taste in her mouth. It should’ve been easy, she knew that. It was a peace agreement, that’s it. Not fighting, no real hard work at this point. But everywhere she looked, every time she found herself staring at the long grass or hazy sky, she saw Bellamy with an arrow in his side, bleeding out beneath her fingertips. The color draining from his face, the life slipping out of him…

Since Lincoln banished her from the infirmary, halfway to hysterical, she’d been barred from returning. Lincoln demanded privacy and quiet, so Clarke had no idea what was going on in there. She didn’t know if Bellamy was dead or alive, though she hoped that someone would at least let her know if things didn’t work. Her throat clenched, and she fought to keep him out of her thoughts, as she’d been trying to do for the last few days. Keeping herself too busy to sleep, because every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.

Up ahead, a billowy white tent was set up across the borderline. There were no walls to it, leaving them open and exposed. On the Ark side there were several of the finest guards and soldiers, and Clarke assumed that the Trikru warriors on the other side were also important officers. Lexa, dressed in long black leather with warpaint dripping from her eyes, already stood at the tent, waiting.

Clarke walked up in silence, her facing a tight reflection of the Commander’s own stony expression. “You’re late,” Lexa said.

Clarke’s jaw felt sore. “I’m here now.”

Lexa nodded slowly, raising her head slightly. She took a breath before speaking the special dialogue: “Do you, Princess Clarissa Elizabeth, of the house of Griffin, Heir to the throne of Ark, accept the agreed-upon terms of peace and security set by both Ark and Trikru?”

Clarke swallowed, her throat dry. “I, Princess Clarissa Elizabeth, of the house of Griffin, Heir to the throne of Ark, accept the agreed-upon terms of peace and security set by both Ark and Trikru, promising to adhere to them and promote sentiments and actions of peace between our two nations, as long as I shall rule.” She then repeated this pledge again, in her rehearsed Trikru language, trying not to stumble over her words or fumble with the dialect. She received a steady nod from each of the Trikru officers on the other side, so she proceeded to ask Lexa the same question.

Lexa answered accordingly, first in her Trikru tongue and then again in the common tongue of Ark. She spoke firmly and confidently, and once the Arkian officers approved of her declaration two long documents were produced, one in each language. Clarke read the first one, in common tongue, carefully before signing at the bottom. She then exchanged it with Lexa for the second, having one of her advisors – well versed in Trikru, of course – read it for truthfulness. Accepting his nod, Clarke signed this one too, then took a step back.

That was it. That was peace: fought for on a battlefield, instituted with two documents and some rehearsed speech. Clarke supposed she should’ve felt relief, but her shoulders still felt heavy with an entirely different worry. She almost slipped back into thinking of _him_ when Lexa spoke in her Trikru tongue, barking out some word to one of her officers.

Clarke watched as the enormous man stepped aside, letting another slide through. His form was small and familiar, with dark glossy hair and beautiful eyes. Clarke’s heart practically stopped.

“Monty?”

“Clarke!” He ran forward across the border, flying into Clarke’s tight embrace. She wrapped herself around him, rocking back and forth as she fought to hold back happy tears. Of course Monty could return to them now, with peace secured. She’d almost forgotten about Lexa’s final term.

Clarke pulled away, seeing moisture ringing Monty’s wide eyes. “Are you okay? Did they---”

“I’m fine, Clarke. I’m okay.” His face broke into a sweet smile, leaving Clarke no choice but to pull him close to her again and enjoy the warmth of his familiar embrace. She didn’t care the least that she’d lost the façade of an intimidating leader or a regal queen. Why should she care? Monty was back. Monty was _home_.

* * *

 

At some point over the last few nights, Lincoln had Bellamy moved to a smaller, private room. Octavia waited outside on a bench, resting forward with her elbows propped up on her knees. Her toe tapped anxiously, hair falling low across her face. She’d lost track of what day it was, quite frankly. She only left her post at Maya’s urging, to sleep and eat what little she could.

Finally, the door cracked open, and the tall silhouette of Lincoln slipped out. Octavia jumped to her feet so quickly the blood swirled in her head. “What is it? Is he okay? What’s happened?”

“He’s alright, for now.” Octavia let out a sigh of relief, but as weary as she felt, Lincoln looked worse. There were dark circles under his eyes. “He’s asleep, and that’s a good sign.”

“So he’ll be okay?”

“I don’t know,” Lincoln shrugged, and Octavia’s stomach plummeted. “It’s all in his hands now. The poison is out and he’s stable, but it’s on him to wake up.”

“So we need to wake him up. Maybe some smelling salts or oils, there must be something in your bags or vials…”

“It’s not like that. He could use a little sleep, rest will serve him well. Besides this isn’t something we want to wake him up from too soon. He needs to come to on his own.”

“So, we wait.” Octavia sank back onto the bench.

Lincoln came to sit beside her. “Have you heard anything about the rest of the rebels?”

Octavia nodded. “Miller’s been in negotiations with the queen, so I suppose things are alright. The last I heard was the queen was actually recognizing his concerns, and they’re moving towards some agreement. She sent some guards down into the Underworld, and sounds like they were extremely impressed, if not a little scared, of the whole city right underneath the palace.”

“Where are the rebels? I can’t imagine the queen would let them all stay in the palace during negotiations, even if she is this understanding.”

“Most of them have scattered, staying in Station City or smaller towns until the negotiations are finished.” Octavia shifted, turning to face Lincoln. “Have you thought about where you’re going to go?”

“Not yet.” He sunk backwards, leaning against the wall and shutting his tired eyes. “I don’t know where to go. With the new peace agreement with Trikru I suppose I could go home to Polis, but that stopped being _home_ long ago.”

“And if you stayed?”

“Here?”

Octavia, strangely enough, could hear her own heartbeat. She thought of when she found Lincoln by the kitchens, thought of the warmth of his embrace and gentle passion of his lips. What if the emotion she felt for him wasn’t what she thought it was? Did he really care about her the way she did him?

“What if you stayed… with me?”

Lincoln opened one eye. “With you?”

“Yeah,” Octavia began to speak very quickly. “I don’t exactly know what’s going to happen now, where I’m gonna go. I guess a lot of that depends on Bellamy, but I was sort of thinking that maybe you could stay with us, if you don’t have anywhere to go---”

“Slow down,” Lincoln laughed, mischief in his tired eyes. “Are you sure your brother will be okay with this?”

“I don’t know. But I’m making this decision myself, not exactly looking for permission. So, I guess he’ll have to be okay with it.”

Lincoln nodded slowly. “How could I say no?” His lips curled up into a small smile that warmed Octavia’s heart. She tucked her legs up onto the bench, curling into Lincoln’s shoulder, feeling _right_.

* * *

 

Wick didn’t know that Raven wasn’t really sleeping.

She’d been trying to fall asleep, but some part of her didn’t want to. Perhaps it was the adrenaline of the past few days, or the ache in her bad leg. Even with her eyes closed in mock sleep, she could feel the tension in the infirmary. Every so often she’d hear the bustling footsteps as another wounded guard was carried in and tended to. She became used to the odd odors of the different potions and medicines used, in addition to the ominous metallic smell of blood.

Raven could feel the slightly-scratchy linens that covered her battered body and lined the stiff cot mattress beneath her. She knew the dried blood and dust had been gently washed away from her bruised skin, and she assumed that the nurses had spent a good amount of time on her left leg. Not that she could feel any of it.

She’d been hovering on the brink of actual sleep when she heard hurried, limping strides moving towards her, followed by the brisk light steps of a nurse. “Excuse me, sir, can I help you with something?”

“Raven Reyes, is she okay?”

Raven’s heart leapt at the sound of Wick’s voice. _He’s alive!_ She had no feasible idea how he could’ve gotten out of that tunnel, but she couldn’t dwell on that. Not when he was here, looking for her.

“Yes, she’ll be alright. She has limited movement in her left leg, nothing below the middle of her upper thigh, but that can be braced.”

Raven heard his steps moving forward slowly, guessing he was watching her. She wanted to open her eyes, but her eyelids felt unusually heavy. She wasn’t really that tired… _Am I?_

The nurse continued, “She needs rest right now. I gave her some sleeping syrup, so it might be a little while before she wakes up.”

“Can I stay here? That way I’ll be here when she’s up.”

“That’s fine. What is your name?”

“Wick. Kyle Wick.”

There was a scraping sound as Wick dragged a chair over, collapsing into it at her bedside. Raven felt his warm, rough hand clasp her cold fingers, touching her palm in a gentle way that she never would’ve thought he’d be capable of. It took all of her remaining energy to pull up the corners of her mouth into a shadow of a smile before finally drifting off to sleep.

* * *

 

Jasper was on his way to Clarke’s room, hoping to catch a moment of the princess’s time, when he bumped into _her_. As soon as he did, all thoughts of Clarke vanished from his mind.

 _She_ stood several inches shorter than his lanky height, with a head full of dark curly hair against alabaster skin. Her eyebrows were bold and expressive, shyly curving upwards above glittering brown eyes. “Sorry,” she stammered, her gaze finally forcing its way up to his.

Jasper felt his throat go dry, and it was like his tongue had just decided to up and leave. It took him a moment to catch his voice before stuttering, “No, no, it was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m sorry.”

“In a hurry?” She asked, her words soft and sweet.

“Yeah,” he choked out. “Going to see a friend.” He noticed the peculiar way she held herself, how she seemed to jump at the most distant sound. “You’re not… from the palace, are you?”

Her eyes widened, then she slowly shook her head. “No. Is it that obvious?”

“No, it’s really not. I’m not, either. Well, I’ve _been_ at the palace for a little over a week now, so I don’t know if that really counts. I guess it could. Maybe not. I don’t know.” _Dammit I can’t even form real sentences!_

“Listen,” she began. “I’m trying to find a friend of mine too, and I’m on my way to her right now. So, if you could keep quiet about my being here, especially since I’m trying to keep a low profile, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Of course.” When Jasper nodded, his head felt like it was flopping like a ragdoll’s. _Real smooth._

“Thanks.” Her smile kickstarted a little drumbeat in his chest. She backed away, blushing, then turned.

“I’m Jasper,” he spat out, not wanting to miss his chance.

She grinned over her shoulder. “I’m Maya.

* * *

 

All through the journey back to Station City, Clarke never let Monty out of her sight. She’d lost him once, she wouldn’t lose him again. As they approached the steps to the palace and entered through the main doors, Clarke looped her arm through his. They followed their guard entourage into the great hall, Clarke watching her mother’s face light up as she took in the sight of her daughter.

“You’re home,” Queen Abby grinned, rising from her seat at a long table. There was another man at the table, an intimidating figure who’d been introduced to Clarke as Nathan Miller, leader of the Underworld rebels. She gave a nod to both her mother and Miller.

“The agreement has been signed,” Clarke relayed. “The official document is being installed into its sealed case right now, which will be locked away in the throne room for safekeeping. Holding both signatures for peace, exactly as planned.”

“Wonderful.” Abby clapped her hands together once, glad to see all of the pieces falling back into place. “Now, Clarke, if I could talk---”

“I’d love to join you and Mr. Miller, but first I need to see to it that my friend Monty is safe and settled.” Clarke gestured to the young man on her arm.

Abby raised her eyebrows but couldn’t say no. “Of course. Come when you’re ready.”

Clarke nodded, leading Monty from the hall and back into the corridor. She noticed the way he stared at her. “What is it?”

“That was the queen.”

“Yeah, that’s my mother.”

“You completely _shut down_ the _queen_.”

“Yes, my _mother_.”

Monty shook his head, grinning. “Maybe you’ll make a perfect ruler after all.”

They made quick progress down the mostly-empty corridors, Clarke ignoring the guards watching her every move. She wanted to break away from Monty and go to check on Bellamy, but she knew what that would lead to. The same door, locked from the inside and no way to convince Lincoln of otherwise. She couldn’t threaten him and boss him around when he was the only person who could save Bellamy’s life. He was too valuable.

Clarke led Monty to her chambers, which – save for the shattered remains of her mirror – had been largely untouched by any ransacking rebels. Of course, the broken glass was the first thing Monty noticed when he entered the lavish space. “What happened?”

“I’ll tell you some other time.” Clarke answered, suddenly weary. She heard someone coming from her adjoining sitting room, whipping around.

“Clarke, you’re back!” She heard relief in Jasper’s voice as he entered, watching him recognize his best friend also standing in Clarke’s room. “ _Monty_?”

“Jasper!” Monty rushed at his friend, pulling him into a sweet hug that tugged on Clarke’s heartstrings. The infamous trio was back together again, just like old times. Now the palace could feel more like a home, with her family together.

“They didn’t hurt you, did they?” Jasper asked protectively.

“No,” answered Monty. “I think they wanted to, but the Commander kept them at bay. Since I was her poison expert, she didn’t keep me far from her sight. She’s a little terrifying, but she’s the reason I’m alive.”

“She shouldn’t have taken you in the first place,” Jasper said, eyebrows furrowing.  

“It makes sense that she did.” Clarke folded her arms. “It raised the stakes, made things more urgent for me. And it got the job done, in the end. We’ve secured peace and stopped the war. I may not agree with _what_ Lexa did, but I understand _why_ she did it.”

Something crossed Jasper’s face, as he stared at Clarke like she was an entirely different person. It startled her, seeing the defensive and confused look in his eyes. Then it passed, Jasper shaking himself from it.

“So tell me,” Jasper nudged Monty with his elbow, prompting him to sit at the foot of Clarke’s enormous bed. “Polis. Was it as much of a hellhole as it looked?”

“It was mostly sad, I guess,” Monty admitted. “I didn’t go beyond the walls of the Commander’s fortress, mainly because they didn’t let me wander. But the little I _could_ see seemed broken and run-down.” His shoulders rose up, drawing back into his memory. “It was sad. I could see two different types of people in Polis, only two: Those who were warriors ready to fight, and those who’d seen war and were devastated because of it.”

“That’s what happens when you’re constantly at war,” Jasper snorted, finding a dark humor that neither Clarke nor Monty saw. “And Lexa, what type of person was she? The first, I’m assuming.”

“Sort of. But there’s something about here that’s different. She never seemed to embrace war, and she carried it like a burden. Not exactly what I was expecting.”

Clarke folded her arms tighter around herself. She knew what Lexa was feeling, as a leader. Clarke knew the burdens. She’d changed. At times, she could hardly believe that she’d been the girl she was only a month ago. In that short time, she’d ditched her old life for royalty, dodged assassination attempts, bartered for international peace. Now, she was on track to be crowned queen before the start of the new year, solidifying her position as leader of Ark. Naturally things would never be the same again.

Perhaps she’d just have to get used to it.

* * *

 

Soft, pinkish sunlight trickled in past Clarke’s curtains, leaving patterns of gold on the floor. She rolled over, sinking deeper into her pile of pillows and wishing, if only for a little while, to be dragged off to sleep. Three mornings ago, she’d been rushing out to the battlefields to stop a war. Three mornings ago, she’d looked Lexa in the eye and challenged the destinies of both nations.

Three mornings ago, Bellamy Blake took a poisoned arrow in the side to protect her. She hadn’t seen him since.

Off in the distance, Clarke heard the bells of the clocktower in Station City, ringing out six hour chimes. She rubbed her eyes, giving up on her crusade for sleep. Clarke pulled herself out of bed, knowing it was better to be up and productive than waste time looking for rest that never came.

She settled down in front of her vanity mirror and grabbed a comb to brush the tangles from her hair. Deep, bluish shadows stood out in contrast to her pale skin, so she reached for her small jar of lotion to try and blur the bags away. She took a deep breath, preparing herself for another day behind the façade of a young leader with everything in control. Behind that, she was held together by fraying strings and numbness.

Clarke dressed and dined alone, politely refusing the offered help from her servants. She chose to sit by the window, watching the sunrise paint the sky over Station City with pinks and oranges. Looking past the glass, she could make out countless rooftops, her imagination picturing the capital slowly coming to life in the morning. She’d been nursing a glass of juice, knees drawn up to her chest, when a guard entered her room. He cleared his throat.

Clarke’s neck spun around, eyes large. _Please no,_ she begged to herself, _please don’t bring me bad news._ If something had happened to Bellamy, would Lincoln send a guard to tell her? A maid? Come himself? _Please._

“Your audience is humbly requested in the palace garden, Your Highness.” He gave a slight bow, then waited for a response.

Clarke didn’t know what to make of this. She nodded, mutely pulling a cloak off the back of her chair and following the guard out of the room. As she left, two more guards – both continuously stationed outside her chambers – shadowed her. More things to become used to, especially following the assassination attempt.

Clarke trailed behind the first guard, following his lead out a side door and towards the gardens. The air outside was crisp and chilly, pinching Clarke’s jumpy nerves as she drew the cloak tighter around her shoulders. They were well into autumn now, she could feel it. Even the garden, bright and colorful less than a week ago, felt more muted and quiet now. Everything was quiet now.

Not including the three who’d traveled with her from her room, Clarke counted four more guards stationed at different intervals around the gardens. She couldn’t help but notice them. The first one stopped now, stepping aside to clear the path for the princess. She gave him a slow nod of the head, proceeding forward. Her tentative feet carried her along the white stone path as she listened to the way the world hung in silence. Up ahead, she recognized the large marble fountain adorned with a deer.

Sitting along its basin, hands resting awkwardly in his lap, was Wells.

Clarke halted abruptly, alarms ringing in her mind. “Wells…”

“Clarke, please.” He held up his hands, showing he was unarmed. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

She moved slowly and thickly, raising her chin and looking down at him. “Don’t make promises you know you cannot keep. You don’t want to hurt me? Choose your words _very_ wisely, then.”

“I had to talk to you, Clarke. I had to try and make you hear my story. Please, even for a little while.”

 _So that explains the extra guards_. Following his father’s arrest, Wells had been placed under careful watch. There wasn’t enough evidence to prove that he was in any way guilty, but recent events lead Clarke to be extra cautious. Everything about speaking with Wells now made her internal sirens wail, but she crossed her arms brusquely and took two steps forward.

Wells took a gulping breath. “My father, he was always very careful with his words. Especially around me. He never told me more than he’d calculated, so I never knew about any of this. _Any_ of his master plans.” Wells’s eyes seemed to bleed honesty, leaving Clarke conflicted. “When he told me he was going to find you, I knew he wanted me to marry you. That way, I’d have claims to the throne. But I _never_ knew that he was planning to have you assassinated. I _never_ knew he’d go so far as that.”

“Wells,” Clarke began, before realizing she didn’t have anything to say to him. She just felt so _tired_.

“Please,” he begged, taking another step towards her. There was less than an arm’s length between them now. “And I swear, on my life, that I knew _nothing_ of my father’s actions against yours. King Jacob was a great king, and I feel so much shame knowing that my own father conspired to end his life.”

“Stop.” Clarke commanded, shutting her eyes tightly. Hearing Wells say those things made it all real. When she’d heard about the confessions and testimonies, she’d hardly believed that Jaha could be capable of such a betrayal. Hearing it all spoken out loud, by someone she’d always trusted -- and perhaps a part of her always would -- brought truth to those horrors. That her father’s life had been stolen by his best friend.

When Wells spoke again, his voice was softer and less urgent. “You didn’t deserve any of this, Clarke. Losing your father, these threats against your family and your life. You didn’t deserve it. And I’m _so sorry_.”

Ignoring any mental warning signs and throwing all caution to the wind, Clarke did what was probably the riskiest, most improper thing to do in this situation: she flung her arms around Wells’s torso and pulled herself into his embrace. He faltered for a moment before nervously wrapping his arms around her. Clarke buried her face into his chest, breathing heavily. She missed Wells, her old best friend. She’d hated the turn of events that pitted her against him. And right now, after the absolute hell she’d marched through, she was looking for any comfort she could find.

“How did we let this happen to us?” She asked quietly, face still pressed up against his vest.

“I don’t know,” Wells exhaled. “We never saw it coming.”

When Clarke pulled away, she left Wells’s warmth and became startlingly aware of the autumn morning chill. “I’m not placing any blame for your father’s actions on _you_ , Wells. I believe your innocence, as long as I see no reasons to doubt it. As your friend, I trust you.”

“Thank you, Clarke.”

“But,” she cut him off, “As your queen, I cannot trust you. As someone who’s grown up in the palace, I think you can understand why. The Jaha family poses too large of a threat at the present moment. Every advisor I have whispering in my ear tells me to charge you, to find you guilty of treason with Thelonious. Some even want to see you and your father executed, to end the Jaha line before any more damage can be done.”

Wells’s features went slack, the color draining from his face.

“I won’t do that. I believe that the shame of your father’s treachery is a heavy punishment to begin with, so I don’t see fit to extend it far beyond that.” She fought to keep a steady, firm face. “However, I cannot keep let you remain in Ark. I do not know how deeply the loyalty to your father might run in different parts of the country, and I don’t think you want to be associated with his actions anymore. So I’m offering you a choice.”

She began to pace, slowly. “Your father will be exiled to the nations of the south, in the Dead Zone. The Wastelanders have been sent word to keep him under guard while there, where he will remain for the rest of his life. If you choose, you can join him. You won’t be under the strict guard that he’ll be, but you will still live in the Dead Zone with him for the rest of his life.

“Or, if you choose, then I have other arrangements. I’ve made a covert deal with a naval commander to secure you passage from the ports, passage to whatever distant country they sail for. I cannot guarantee or give you anything except my protection as you leave Ark. This could be a chance for you to start over. But you _must_ start over. New name, new identity. You can never return to Ark, and you can never see any member of your family again. Including your father. The choice is yours.”

Wells stood silent and still, like the marble behind him. His eyes were trained on the ground, unmoving. The only movement was the slow rise and fall of his chest. Clarke heard the thudding beat of her heart in her ears, waiting for an answer.

Finally Wells gave one. “I cannot thank you enough, Clarke, for your wisdom, your compassion, and your generosity. And every ounce of me wants nothing more than to run from my past, from the Jaha in me.” He shook his head. “But I can’t do that. My father, for all his flaws, is still my father. I don’t believe he has many years left, but I _do_ believe there is still some drop of goodness in him. If I can find that, perhaps I can save him from whatever horrible fate might come upon him in the afterlife.” Wells gave a sad smile. “So I’m choosing the Dead Zone.”

Clarke nodded, respecting his choice. It wasn’t at all what she’d expected, but she knew the decision wasn’t taken lightly. “After your father’s eventual passing, you will still have my protection. You cannot return to Ark, but you will be free to go where you please.”

“Thank you, Clarke. For your mercy.”

“Wells, I’m your friend. And I’ll always be your friend. I hope you know that.”

“I do.”

There was a kindness in Wells’s face, a genuine empathy that Clarke knew was a rare find. It tugged at her heart and welled sorrow in the pit of her stomach. She reached out, taking his larger hand in her own, and gave a squeeze. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again, someday.”

“But I can’t come back to Ark.”

“That doesn’t mean our paths may never cross. Who knows? I could be traveling and just _happen_ to run into you.”

“Who knows?” He repeated wistfully. This time, it was Wells who squeezed Clarke’s hand. And again, when she let go, she was aware of how cold the morning was.

* * *

 

“But is she ready?”

General Kane clasped his hands behind his back, pacing slowly across the wooden floor. At the other end of the small study, Queen Abigail stood wringing her fingers, lit by the hazy light spilling in through the windowpane. It was times like these, when she looked most strong and beautiful, that he had to remind himself that she was a queen, and a widow at that.

“I think Clarke showed remarkable strength at the battlefields, and in all of the proceedings to follow.” He spoke with certainty, though nothing could be _less_ certain than the future of the young heir. “She’s not as refined as she could be, but that comes from her… odd background. She resonates well with the public, as they like the idea of a leader who’s lived their lives and faced their struggles. I’d say she’s in a very good position right now.”

“With peace secured, the Council is pressuring us to hold the coronation soon. They want young blood on the throne, some new life.” She added dryly.

“I wouldn’t take it as an insult, Abby. Given the circumstances you’ve been a fair and just ruler.”

“I was barely a ruler, we both know that.” She gripped the bookcase behind her, steadying herself. “I let a crazed traitor stand in my place while he slowly killed me in my sleep.”

“You didn’t know. None of us knew.” And it pained Kane to admit it. The revelation that Jaha had been poisoning the queen was a special blow to Kane. A security breach of this scale was unforgivable, but the fact that it had happened to _Abby_ , to his friend and companion… Kane condemned himself for it.

Abby sank onto a velvet chaise, releasing a long sigh. “I worry about her too much. I suppose that’s natural, given our complicated history. But every time I think about her I’m wondering if she’s okay and how I can shield her from dangers, from the world of royalty and leadership. From pain and loss and regret.”

“She seems to be doing a good job of controlling her emotions,” Kane admitted. Then he recalled the way Clarke had snapped when the Trikru man began treating Bellamy. After that, Clarke could only be described as _numb_.

“She worries about that man, Marcus. _Your_ guard.” She spoke as if Bellamy belonged to Kane, like he was Kane’s problem to clean up.

“They seemed to grow very close. I think the fear of losing him only heightened that.”

“She doesn’t sleep, barely eats. I used to think it was over the peace agreement, but now I think otherwise. I worry.”

“About what? That she’s wasting away from anxiety, or that she’s fallen for a palace guard?”

“What sort of future could they possibly have, Marcus?” Abby fumbled for words. “She’ll be the queen, the next monarch in the line of a very powerful family. He’s a commoner, a _boy_ with a uniform and a halfway-decent code of honor.”

 _No,_ Kane thought, _Bellamy Blake is a boy with next to nothing. A boy from the humblest and worst of backgrounds, from a world that wanted nothing more than to rip him to pieces._ And against all odds, he’d fought it. “Clarke will be queen. She cannot change the past, but she’ll have an impressive hand in any future that she might craft for Bellamy Blake. In the meantime, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“I just want her to be happy. Of course, safe and successful and all of that. But above all else, just be happy.”

Kane settled onto the chaise beside her. “And what about you, Abby? Are _you_ happy?”

She looked at him with those enormous doe eyes, a rich brown shade that he’d always viewed as warm. Abigail Griffin was a beautiful woman, even with the fine lines of age and experience. She’d captured his attention long ago, and while he’d fought with everything he had to keep a professional, respectful distance, his resistance was slowly caving.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “I just keep thinking ahead, to what could happen...”

“Then stop. Focus on what’s happening right now.”

“Now?” She was skeptical.

“Yes. Look at this one moment. Where you are, what you’re doing, how you feel.”

Abby closed her eyes, the tension seeping out of her bones as she slowly fell into relaxing. She lay her head on Kane’s shoulder, fitting perfectly in the crook of his collar. He listened for her low, steady breathing. Kane asked again. “Are you happy?”

Her words were a whisper, a shadow, a breeze. “I am.”

* * *

 

“Your Highness,” A new guard addressed the princess. “Your presence is requested in the royal library, immediately.”

Clarke’s brows furrowed, annoyed. It was still early in the morning, and she was already tired of being summoned places. And the library wasn’t a common place for a morning meeting of any sort. “Immediately?”

“At your soonest convenience, of course.”

Clarke nodded. No, this wasn’t really convenient, but she’d rather get it over with. Clarke let the guard led her away from the garden. When she reached the palace doorway, she noticed how he sent the other two shadowing guards away, thank goodness. She recognized this man’s face: he was a kind, likable fellow who’d been stationed around her room before. Clarke felt embarrassed for not remembering his name.

They walked in brisk silence, the palace still coming awake. Most of the people walking the corridors were staff, the servants and maids up and working. Nobles had the luxury of sleeping in and being waited on, so they wouldn’t rise for at least another hour. Which was perfectly fine by Clarke; she despised their company anyways.

“Why the library?” Clarke inquired. It was an odd place, plus it was located at a far wing away from much of the action in the palace. Little was on this side of the castle, beside the library, the infirmary, some old dining hall, and the living quarters of the lesser nobility.

“I don’t know, Your Highness.”

Clarke followed him to a large door, and he opened it to reveal a spiral staircase going up. He held the door open politely while Clarke passed and began climbing the steps as the door swung shut behind her. She paused, realizing the guard was no longer with her. _That’s odd_. Her nerves sparked defensively, and she hurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Then she reached the top, and her heart stopped beating.

It was only for a moment, it must’ve skipped a beat. There was a small alcove at the top of the stairs, with a large window letting in the now-abundant golden sunlight. It played off every plane of his strong, familiar body, giving him an otherworldly quality. He wore a simple white shirt – she’d never seen him wear a color that light before – and dark trousers, unarmed and unadorned. He looked clean and healthy, glowing in the sun. But his eyes were still the same, deep and bottomless and intense, reminding Clarke that he was as perfectly and heartbreakingly human as she was.

When Clarke found her voice, the words that came out were blunt and awkward. “I thought you were dead.”

Bellamy answered, “I’m not.”

“I can see that now.” Clarke took a wary step up. “Lincoln wouldn’t let me come see you. He wasn’t sure how you’d react, but I think he was more worried about how _I’d_ react.”

“He said you caused quite the scene when he began treating me.”

“You were in pain.” She answered plainly, unapologetically. “How could I not?”

Bellamy took a step down as Clarke moved one up. She was pulled to him, something magnetic in his gaze and his presence. She wanted to feel the warmth of his skin, to trace the patterns across his freckles and hold him in her hands until she was absolutely certain he was real.

She placed her palms, carefully and cautiously, on the smooth plane of his chest. Beneath her fingertips, she could feel his taut muscles, and deeper still, a gentle throbbing of his heartbeat. “I thought you were dead,” she repeated, voice a wisp. “I needed to know, to be sure that you’re…”

“I’m here, Clarke.” Bellamy’s voice was filled with more tenderness than she could’ve imagined. “I’m okay.”

“Lincoln counteracted the poison?”

“Like a charm. It wasn’t easy, though for either of us. That’s why he wanted to watch me for several days. To make sure my body wouldn’t take a turn and reject the antidote.”

“And your wound, is it healing?”

“Exactly as it should. I could’ve lost a lot more blood, in all honesty. Poison or no poison, I probably shouldn’t believe alive right now.”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Clarke admitted. “I haven’t eaten, haven’t slept. It was killing me that I wasn’t allowed to see you..”

“Hey,” Bellamy leaned in, taking Clarke’s face in delicate hands. He held her and looked like her as though she was everything precious in his world. “I’m okay. You’re not going to lose me.”

“I thought I was. And I…” She took a shuddering exhale. “I just _couldn’t_.”

Bellamy’s face was just inches from hers when the last words slipped out in a breath. They were hardly words at all, raw emotion poured out into open air, Clarke waging everything she had in those words. “ _I need you_.”

It wasn’t want, or desire, or passion, or any of those things. It was necessity. Desperate, honest necessity. Clarke couldn’t imagine a world without Bellamy, like a world with all of the light pulled out of it.

It was love.

Clarke wanted to drown in the endless depths of his eyes, to pull herself into his world and stay there as long as she could. She rose up onto her tiptoes, leaning forward to press the softest of kisses onto Bellamy’s lips. They barely touched, as though she was afraid of what would happen if they did. It was only for a quick moment before she pulled away, shutting her eyes and lingering in his presence.

Bellamy seemed to spark back to life, lunging forward with urgency. He held her face tight in his hands as he drove his lips to hers. Clarke met him with equal ferocity, drinking him in. Her hands clutched fistfuls of his shirt while his gripped the back of her head, fingers weaving into blonde curls. She tilted her face, trying to bring herself any closer to him. They were a perfect fit, bodies curving against each other and two hearts beating in one rhythm.

All she could feel was the warmth of the sunlight on her back and the warmth of Bellamy’s electricity every time he touched her: hands in her hair, chest to chest, lips exploring hers. He was everything at once, all of her hopes and fears and realities bottled into one person. And she held onto him with this necessity, fearing that she’d open her eyes and he would be gone.

When they finally broke away, they were both breathless. Bellamy pressed his forehead to Clarke’s, sharing their breath. Two pairs of flushed cheeks and parted lips and bright, passionate eyes.

“You have no idea,” he spoke in a low, growling whisper that sent a long shiver down her spine. “How hard it’s been to keep myself from doing that. How _long_ I’ve wanted to do that.”

The ghost of his kiss made Clarke glow from the inside out. “I can imagine.”

“When Cage tried to turn me against you,” he began, eyes darkening for a moment, “When he tried to snuff the good in my world…”

“ _Bellamy_.” Everything weighed on that name, that one little word. She could say it a thousand times and it’d never be enough. “We both have our demons, things that scare us beyond belief. But I am yours and you are mine, and I don’t want to ruin this perfect moment with regrets of what we did or didn’t do.”

His hands snaked down to meet hers, fingers interlocking with hers like cogs fitting seamlessly in a clock. His lips stretched into a smile, leaving Clarke grinning and hungry for him in every way. “I am yours,” he repeated. “And you are mine.”

They stayed there for longer than Clarke could’ve guessed, all time suspended for people in love. In their own little halo of golden sunlight, in a world were evil didn’t exist and the strongest power was the bond between two people who can’t live without each other. Forehead to forehead, hand in hand, they stood there like a painting, like some artist’s interpretation of love in its purest form. The princess and her guard: two lost souls who had found each other and were never letting go.

 _I need you_.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	20. Epilogue

 

“Come here, Atta.” Charlotte extended a welcoming hand out to the younger girl, waiting for Atta to join her. The little blonde child darted over to Charlotte’s side. Only nine years old, Atta was all golden curls and cornflower eyes and big smiles.

Charlotte knelt down. “Here, let me fix that crown of yours.” She adjusted the tiara, a small ringlet woven from shiny foil and modeled after the real crown. “There, now you look just like the princess.”

Atta looked down at her pageant costume, with its flowy white skirt and patchwork breastplate of mock armor. Her tiny brows puckered. “I thought I was the queen?”

“Of course, she’s Queen Clarissa now,” Charlotte explained to her younger sister. “But remember, in the pageant you’re playing _Princess_ Clarissa, from three years ago.”

“Oh, okay.” Atta nodded eagerly.

“Do you remember all of your lines?”

“Yeah, we practiced together, Lottie.”

Charlotte grinned, “Then let me hear one of them.”

Atta’s face twisted, squinting one eye as she dug the phrase from her memory. “ _With hope for Ark forever in my heart._ ”

“Very good.” Charlotte opened her arms, sweeping her little sister into her embrace. “Now remember, there are going to be lots of people watching you in this pageant.”

“Even the queen?”

“ _Even_ the queen. As long as you say your lines exactly as we’ve practiced, you’re going to do just fine. I know it.”

Atta pulled away, full of nervous energy. Charlotte brushed a curl of Atta’s blond hair from her eyes. She’d been excited when Atta had been cast as the princess due to her likeness, and even prouder after her sister worked so hard on her role.

“Atta, are you ready?” Eris, a dark-haired girl with several inches on Atta, called out to her. Eris was playing Lexa, and with her leather costume, braided hair, and war paint, she looked like a perfect smaller version of the real Commander. While Lexa wouldn’t be present at this part of the Unity Day festivities, she’d sent her regards to the queen with the expressed hopes of another peaceful year ahead of them.

“Yes, I am.” Atta scampered away from her sister, then turned around to get one last look at Charlotte.

She gave Atta a thumbs-up. “Go have fun, Atta.”

With a smile that lit up the room, Atta followed Eris towards the stage.

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke leaned forward in her throne, clapping enthusiastically. She watched the set of burgundy curtains swing shut, then open again as the troupe of young pageant performers step forward. They stood at the edge of a stage in the center of the town square, a sea of spectators clapping and cheering at their feet. This children’s pageant was a new piece in the Unity Day festivities, performed as a dramatized reenactment of the historic events at the battlefields. It told the story of Princess Clarissa saving her kingdom from war through the peace bargain with Commander Lexa.

Of course, watching it unfold on stage, Clarke couldn’t help but notice the glossy changes they’d made to history. She couldn’t decide if it was comical or slightly terrifying seeing small children dressed up in pretend armor and grounder costumes, faces complete with makeshift helmets and smeared facepaint. She imagined the same children, years from now, grown up and marching off to fight real wars. This was the reality she faced every day: the fight to secure peace and keep her kingdom safe.

Standing below her, the crowds of Station City cheered for their young performers. The city seemed to come alive in new ways for the Unity Day celebration. Garlands and wreathes hung throughout the city, Arkian flags adorning every available surface. The children’s pageant was only one part of the weekend-long celebration, complete with banquets, fairs, dances, contests, and a fireworks display to top it all off. As queen, Clarke was expected to attend as much of it as she could, even if it meant watching from a safely-guarded distance.

“Wasn’t that wonderful, Clarke?” Abby, the queen-mother, leaned across from her seat beside her daughter. “They really did a fine job. It can’t be easy for young children to get up in front of such an audience.”

Clarke nodded, respectfully rising to her feet and keeping up the applause. She was well aware of the eyes trained on her, so she let a glowing smile adorn her face. Dressed in her Unity Day finery, she wore a long gown of rich emerald green with golden trim, matching the colors of the Arkian flag. Her crown, larger and heavier than the princess tiaras of yesteryear, caught the early-evening sunlight, illuminating her in a glow that was everything perfect and regal.

After the pageant, it was on to the banquets. There were enormous dinners planned throughout the nation’s capital, one of the finest being held in the palace courtyard. This one would be full of the upper-class, and while Clarke dreaded such company as the nobles, she found this to be one custom she couldn’t overturn. During the carriage ride back to the palace, she spent her moments of solitude composing herself for an evening of carefully-planned words and charming smiles.

This day marked the three-year anniversary of the peace treaty between Ark and Trikru, leading to a new era of mutual friendship between the nations. In that time, Clarke had been crowned queen and set into motion a whole new tide of change. For the first time since her father’s rule, the lower classes had representation among the nobility on the councils. She’d used her influence to foster democracy and equality, instead of using her position as ruler to issue unnecessary ultimatums. She ruled with compassion and firmness and justice, a fair contrast to the previous Chancellor.

Led from her carriage, Clarke entered the palace courtyard to find it transformed. Beautiful, sparkling banners hung from the fortification walls, matching the ribbon garlands draped across the sky. There were large tables set up in rows, laden with a shimmering array of place settings. On the steps of the palace sat the finest table, complete with an especially-ornate chair for the queen. The entire space glowed golden with the light of a hundred lanterns, and from a distant corner drifted a melody played by a trio of instrumentalists.

Clarke couldn’t be seated before her guests – decorum forbid it – so she watched the courtyard swell with jovial diners from her window perch. She was the last to come to the banquet, making her grand entrance at the top of the stairs and taking slow, steady steps down. Her cheeks colored red at the applause that accompanied it all. She’d never quite gotten used to such admiration and attention, and she knew she never would.

The last to reach the table, Clarke passed the smiling faces of her mother and Marcus Kane on one side, and Jasper and Monty on the other. Turns out she _could_ bend the decorum a little, making sure to have her best friends at her side.

To begin the meal, Clarke was to give a toast. She wrapped her fingers around her glistening crystal wine goblet and raised it up in the air. “To the friends and family gathered among us tonight, to the loved ones we’ve lost and the new ones we’ve gotten to know, to the endless beauty and resilience of Ark, to a wonderful year of peace and many more to come.”

 

* * *

 

 

The air was filled with music and laughing and merriment. Clarke found herself swept up in it all, gliding from dignitary to noble to ambassador and giving her respectful regards as was appropriate. She’d just departed from a robust duke from the southern parts of Ark when she heard her name called.

“Clarke!”

She spun. Almost nobody called her just “Clarke”, but there was no mistaking that bright voice. Octavia wove her way through the crowd, her face gleaming with a wide grin. She’d dressed up for the occasion, hair woven in braids and wearing a high-waisted plum gown. It was unusual to see her in something other than pants and a tunic.

“Having a good time?” Clarke asked, giving a genuine smile as she embraced her friend.

“It’s fantastic,” Octavia gushed. When she pulled away, her hand slipped unconsciously back into Lincoln’s. The strong man beside her seemed to keep her grounded, and Clarke couldn’t imagine a better match. “It’s been nothing but dancing and good food, I’ve loved every minute of it.”

“I wish I could spend more time with you at the palace,” Clarke said. “I feel like it’s been forever since I last saw you.”

“I understand,” Octavia sympathized. “You’re a busy lady. That happens when you become queen.”

“Bellamy told me the news. Congratulations, I’m very happy for the two of you.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Lincoln answered in his quiet baritone, giving a slight nod of the head.

“We’re both so happy.” Octavia placed her hand on her stomach, right where she was starting to bulge under her gauzy gown. “We hope to be married before the New Year, or at least before our little one comes along.”

“Well you have my blessing, of course, but I don’t think that would really make much of a difference at this point.”

“Thanks,” Octavia gripped Clarke’s hand and gave a squeeze. “Hey, speaking of my brother, have you seen him around at all tonight? He’s on duty, isn’t he?”

“Naturally,” Clarke answered. “Knowing him, he’s probably perched at some lookout watching this banquet like a hawk.”

“He must feel like he has a lot to prove, as the new captain of the guard,” Lincoln said. Bellamy had taken over for Kane little more than two months ago, allowing the older man to retire and, consequently, refocus his attention on the queen-mother. When Kane named his successor – a young, largely inexperienced guard with a complicated background – there had been plenty of backlash among the legions, especially in the upper ranks. But so far, Bellamy had done nothing but prove Kane’s trust was well-placed, and Clarke couldn’t think of a better person to fill the position.

“Tell him to lighten up, when you see him.” Octavia winked. “He works too hard. This _is_ a celebration, after all.”

“I probably won’t see him for a little while. I’m expected to make the rounds and engage in lovely small-talk with nobles I don’t like and certainly don’t like me. It’s protocol. Bellamy will have to wait.”

Octavia rolled her eyes. “Real talk: you’re the queen. If you want to take a break, then take a break. Screw protocol.”

Lincoln gestured to the platform with a new troupe of musicians. “They’ve just switched out the entertainment, so most people will be distracted anyways. Now’s as good a time as ever.”

Clarke caved. It didn’t really take that much convincing. “Sure, I suppose you’re right. And it’s just a few minutes.”

Octavia gave her a sly look, “If you say so, Your Majesty.”

Clarke hurried inside, thankfully left alone as she clutched handfuls of her skirt and marched up the steps. Within the thick stony walls, the music and chatter of the banquet faded away to a soft hum. She didn’t mind the quiet after a night – a whole weekend, really – of constant action and celebration. Taking brisk steps, she turned a corner just as a hand gripped her arm and pulled.

Clarke whipped around, spinning into someone as a familiar pair of lips crashed onto hers. She smiled through the kiss, trying not to laugh. “You know I don’t like surprises.”

Bellamy broke away, his face hovering just in front of hers. His dark eyes twinkled. “If you’re trying to scold me, you’re doing a bad job of it.”

“You’re making it difficult to,” she tried to answer, but he kept cutting her off with quick kisses that interrupted her words until she gave up.

He pushed back, leaning against the wall beside Clarke. A part of her still couldn’t get over how handsome he looked in his new captain’s uniform, with the elaborate chestplate and long sweeping cape and a strong sense of authority around him. Then again, she always found him handsome.

“You taking a break tonight?” She asked, tracing circles onto the polished surface of his chestplate.

“Not any time soon.”

“Bellamy, it’s okay.” Clarke tried to reassure him. “Get something to eat, take a moment to relax. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

He pulled his lips into a thin line, looking uneasy. “With everyone in the palace courtyard? If something were to happen—”

“Nothing will.” Clarke reached up to cup his face, hand curving along the strong arc of his jawline and cheek. “Being captain of the guard means that you can put other people in charge of keeping me safe, so you don’t have to worry about me all the time.”

“I probably will anyways.”

“There’s only been one real assassination attempt on me in the decade, and _you_ were the assassin.”

“I don’t trust other people.” His brows furrowed, pulling a shadow over his intense gaze.

“I know you don’t.” Clarke leaned in, resting her head against the crook of his shoulder. She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his hands as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. Somewhere, beneath the thick layers of armor and undershirts, she could just make out the beating of a heart in time with hers.

“Three years,” he murmured, speaking into her hair. “It’s been three years.”

“Time flies.” On some days, Clarke nearly forgot that the mysterious thief in the forest had really existed, that she was once an actual person and not simply some facet of a distant memory.

“And in that time, you’ve become queen, and I’ve become captain of the royal guard.”  Bellamy’s smile reached his eyes, crinkling their corners. “We’ve come a long way.”

Something sat heavily at the pit of Clarke’s stomach. “I know where this is going, Bellamy…”

“Three years, Clarke. We’ve been together for three years. Secretly engaged for almost two, now. Tell me, are you ever going to reach a point where we can finally make it public?”

“Bellamy, we both agreed that we should keep this quiet. Things are… difficult. I’m queen, and I can’t simply make decisions for myself. I have to act with Ark at the forefront of my mind at all times. I have to make sacrifices.”

He laughed, but his eyes were pleading. “So I’m a sacrifice? Clarke, if the universe hasn’t been able to drag us apart by now, I’d say we could pretty much handle anything. You have already sacrificed so much to be the leader that Ark needs.” Bellamy took a step back. “It’s been three years of quiet, blissful peace. Ark’s relationship with Trikru is better than ever before, trade is booming and the people are happy. When is it going to be _your_ turn to be happy?”

“I am queen. I can’t always afford to be happy.”

“No, it’s your _job_ to be queen.” When he pulled himself closer to Clarke again, his voice dropped to a low whispery growl that sent a long shiver down her spine. “You’re Clarke Griffin, a woman with hopes and fears and desires like any other human being. And you should have every chance at happiness just like anyone else. And should you ever think otherwise, should you ever believe that you don’t want or don’t need or don’t _deserve_ to be happy,” his lips traveled to the exposed skin of her neck, accenting his husky words with hot kisses, “I’ll gladly remind you that _you do_.”

Clarke’s eyes fluttered shut as she exhaled a shaky breath. It was impossible to argue with Bellamy when he became like this. They were both too stubborn for their own good, each knowing ways to push the other’s buttons and exactly how to make up for it. And Clarke couldn’t help but realize that she _hated_ the secrecy. She hated forcing herself to stay indifferent and composed with Bellamy when others were around, waiting to steal precious minutes whenever they could. She hated living a life where Bellamy couldn’t be a priority, where she’d fall asleep curled up in his arms but woke to an empty bed because he couldn’t be seen anywhere near her in such a way.

“Bell,” she spoke quietly, pulling his attention away.

“Yeah?”

“I want to.”

For all of his convincing, he looked confused. “Want to…?”

She rested her forehead against his. “I want to marry you. And I don’t care who knows about it. Let the whole kingdom know; I want to be _happy_.”

Bellamy’s face blossomed into a wide smile. Clarke felt his grip tighten as he pulled her off the floor, with her feet dangling and she giggled. Soon she was swept up again in another kiss, a strange giddy sensation blooming deep within her like the feeling of summer sunlight.

“So,” Clarke spoke when he finally set her back down. “As your queen, I order you to take a break from your guard duties and spend the rest of your evening in the company of your esteemed ruler.”

“Oh really?” Bellamy smirked, eyes alight with teasing and love and devious intentions. “And what shall we do, Your Majesty?”

Clarke reached for his hands, fingers intertwining with his.

“Whatever the hell we want.”

 

 

 

_Thank you so much for reading "Kingdom Come"! If you've enjoyed it, I hope you'll check out my other works here on A03._

_Sincerely, thank you guys a bunch!_

_-K.T._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for more to come :)
> 
> Kudos or comment if you enjoyed it! Thanks!  
> -K.T.


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